


Another Man's Shoes

by idelthoughts



Category: Forever (TV)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Body Dysphoria, Bodyswap, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Ensemble Cast, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort Bingo: Disappearing, Identity Issues, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mystery, Reveal, Suicide, Trust Issues, casefic, post-series finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-18 10:20:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 108,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7311019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idelthoughts/pseuds/idelthoughts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a routine murder investigation—until a mysterious device bodyswaps Henry and Lucas, just as it did their murder victim.  To return to their own bodies, they must solve the murder while keeping their condition a secret from Jo and their colleagues, on top of negotiating Lucas’ love life and family, and Henry’s secret immortality. But who is immortal now? And for Henry, is a shot at mortality worth becoming someone else?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's safe to say this fic would not exist without the near-daily support I got from [LadySilver](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LadySilver/pseuds/LadySilver). Thank you so much for seeing this through with me, and talking me into signing up for the wipbigbang challenge! 
> 
> An equally big thank you to [htbthomas](http://archiveofourown.org/users/htbthomas/pseuds/htbthomas) and [Nagaem_C](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Nagaem_C/pseuds/Nagaem_C) for beta work and general cheerleading, and [aika_max](http://archiveofourown.org/users/aika_max/pseuds/aika_max) for finding all my plot holes, and [argylepiratewd](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgylePirateWD/pseuds/ArgylePirateWD) for the feedback and the incredible cover art! And to [BBCPhile](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bbcphile), who writes summaries like she works for a paperback novel publishing company.
> 
> I started working on this fic a year and a half ago, and it's a little hard to believe it's seeing the light of day. Thank you to all my amazing friends who've patiently listened to me ramble/rant/whine about it over all that time.
> 
> This fic will post between now and August 5th, and is part of the [wipbigbang challenge 2016](http://wipbigbang.livejournal.com).
> 
>  

Henry wasn’t sure if Lucas thought he was being discreet—but if that’s what he was striving for, he was failing.

It didn’t matter how much Lucas covered his hand with his mouth and crammed himself against the door window of the van; they were trapped in traffic with the engine idling quietly. The entire crime scene forensic team couldn’t help but overhear his conversation, given it was the only point of interest.

The other three assistants were doing their best to pretend they weren’t listening. As Lucas took a breath to make another sally into the phone receiver, Henry closed his eyes and grasped for the threads of calm and patience. It wasn’t necessarily Lucas’ fault that New York traffic could drive even a man who’d spent two hundred years cultivating his patience to unprecedented levels of frustration.

“No, but—sure. I mean, I get that. Yeah, no problem. I swear, Saturday. Hell or high water, I’m there. Yeah. Yeah, exactly, I know. Thank you. Thank you so much, I’ll make it up to you.”

Lucas started a long series of variations on _goodbye_ that seemed to take up another full minute, during which Henry could not help but check again to see if the traffic snarl had yet let up, even though the long stretch of red lights ahead of them hadn’t changed at all. Lucas finally hung up the phone and the sigh of relief from the other assistants wasn’t so much audible as visible, everyone finally able to relax and stop pretending so hard that they were ignorant to Lucas’ plight.

From his vantage point in the front seat, Henry could see Lucas in the bench seat behind via the rear view mirror. Lucas looked up in time to meet his gaze in the mirror and, sensing Henry’s mood and the awkwardness in the vehicle, reacted the way he usually did: more talking.

“So!” Lucas started loudly, looking around. “What’s everybody up to this weekend?”

There was an unsettled ripple of sighs and groans through the passengers, and the uncomfortable silence reigned. Henry glanced at Lucas again to see him slump against the window once more, looking disconsolate as he took the hint.

Despite Henry’s gentle attempts at providing guidance, Lucas still dissolved into incomprehensible gurgling whenever faced with a woman he cared for. Which, distressingly, seemed to be nearly every woman who crossed his path.

Not that Henry was doing much better—he was tongue-tied more often than not since his conversation with Jo a week ago. Since she found the photograph of Henry, Abigail, and Abe, and he’d told her the truth about his immortality, they’d been on uncertain ground. Whenever the opportunity arose for personal conversation, Henry’s nerves left him fumbling and desperately eager to find some way to fix things, and inevitably Jo took advantage of his floundering and excused herself before he could find his voice. They’d not exchanged a personal word, and he didn’t know if she wanted to.

While she’d listened, it was painfully clear she was not ready to forgive his deception. Gaining Jo’s confidence in exchange for losing her trust was a steep price to have paid, but there was nothing he could do until Jo was ready to talk.

Next to Henry, the driver perked up.

“I think we’re moving!” he exclaimed, and there was a whispered chorus of ‘thank god’ and ‘finally.’

In the meantime, there was work to focus on. Like everything else he’d ever experienced, Henry would survive this too.

 

***

 

“So the first time was my own fault, I can admit that. I got the days mixed up, and I stood Sabrina up by accident. _And_ it was pouring rain that day, and she was soaked waiting for me.”

St. Vartan’s Park was ringed with yellow police tape, and the OCME van was parked on the sidewalk to avoid blocking the morning rush hour. Lucas dogged Henry’s heels as they ducked under the tape and made their way along the lightly gravelled walk leading into the heart of the small block-sized city park.

Despite Henry’s heavily telegraphed disinterest, Lucas continued to narrate the full details of his romantic efforts. Henry resigned himself to the flood of high-strung enthusiasm, but only half his attention was on Lucas’ words. The rest was focused on preparing himself for seeing Jo again.

“The second time wasn’t my fault at all—a pipe burst in the apartment above mine and my phone was drowned in the flood, so I couldn’t text her.”

Henry grunted an acknowledgement, since complete lack of response seemed unbearably rude, hoping this would be end of Lucas’ early morning rambles. Lucas unfortunately took this as his cue to continue.

“Which sounds like the fakest excuse, right up there with ‘my dog ate my homework’ and ‘oh sorry, I didn’t get that email, must have gone into my junk mail.’ So this is my last chance, I’ve gotta make a good impression.”

Henry patted Lucas on the shoulder, struggling to achieve an attitude of supportive bonhomie.

“I’m sure it will go quite well, Lucas.”

They followed the directions of a uniformed police officer. Behind a line of park benches opposite a children’s playground, on a patch of grass bordered by a wrought iron fence separating the park from the sidewalk, Jo and Hanson were standing with their backs to them looking down at the body of their victim. On hearing them approach, Jo looked back over her shoulder.

Despite himself, Henry’s stomach did an acrobatic pirouette when Jo’s eyes met his. It was only the second crime scene he’d consulted on with her in the past week, and she’d avoided him the rest of the time. He gave her a polite nod, and she returned it with a tentative smile. His palms were uncomfortably sweaty, and he was stuck halfway between the urge to grab her and whisk her away to talk, and the desire to turn tail and flee from her.

“Any last minute tips?” Lucas said close to his ear, having leaned in to lower his voice. Henry started at the invasion of his thoughts and physical space. “What are Henry Morgan’s sure-fire dating methods? You’re pretty successful with the ladies. Or are you down to one lady right now?” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively and nudged Henry with his elbow. “What do you think I should—“

“Lucas,” Henry snapped, his tension getting the best of his patience. He stopped and glared at Lucas, who had been caught off-guard by Henry’s shortness. “I suggest we focus on the job at hand. The trials and tribulations of your personal life can wait.”

Lucas leaned back from him, eyebrows raised. He looked from Henry to the detectives, and then back. He pursed his lips and nodded slowly.

“Okay, Dr. Morgan.”

Lucas’ tone and attitude indicated that he knew Henry’s sour mood had very little to do with Lucas. Henry’s ire deflated. Lucas was not a deserving target, but before he could apologize Lucas shifted his crime scene kit to his other hand, gave Henry a mock salute, and headed to the body. Henry took a moment to collect himself and pulled on a pair of blue nitrile gloves before he joined the group.

The victim was a woman crumpled on her side, resting on bright green spring grass dotted with yellow buttercups. Surrounded by the blooming hedge of hydrangeas that edged the patch of grass and the dappled sunshine coming through the maple trees above them, it was as idyllic a final resting place as one could find in the middle of the city.

Less idyllic, however, was the gunshot wound that had removed a portion of the victim’s head.

“Good morning, Detectives. Who do we have here?”

“Heya, Doc,” Hanson said. “Someone saw her through the fence this morning, thought she was a homeless person sleeping here, then saw the wound and realized she was dead.” He gestured to the destroyed portion of the woman’s head. “Called it in around 7:30am. No ID on the body, and so far the cops on the scene haven’t found a purse or wallet ditched in the bushes.”

“It looks like there was action,” Jo added, nodding to a few patches of the grass that were trampled and scuffed. “No clear footprints, but there was a fight of some kind.”

Henry circled the victim and then squatted down to peer into her face. Most of it was still there, the gunshot having struck under her ear near the hinge of her jaw. She had dark, thick wavy hair that was now matted with blood. Wide mouth, sharp nose, her skin and face lean and weathered, beginning to crease with age. In her early forties, maybe. He took one of her hands and flexed the joints, then dabbed at the blood on her skin and rubbed it between his fingers.

“She’s been here at least six or eight hours. I’ll have to get her back to the lab to know a more precise time of death.” Henry stood and tilted his head to peer at the body. The angle of the fall, the twist, the placement of the shot… He crouched once again and picked up the victim’s hand again to examine it closely. “Lucas, pass me a collection swab, please.”

“What is it?” Hanson asked as Henry swabbed the skin and dropped it into the waiting tube Lucas held for him.

“There are obvious signs of a struggle in the surrounding environment—trampled grass and divots, bushes damaged over there—and she has bruises on her arms.” Henry crouched down once again and pushed up one of the woman’s sleeves, revealing the purple bruises that had been peeking out below the edge of her cuff, then tugged down the neck of her pale blue button-down shirt. “There’s bruising around her neck as well. She was grabbed from behind and throttled. She fought against her attacker very insistently.”

“I can feel a _but_ coming here,” Hanson said.

“But I think she had hold of the gun when it was discharged. Size and shape of the wound indicates a handgun, and in my experience there are only so many angles a right-handed person can achieve and still be holding the gun.” He mimed a gun with his fingers, holding it to the side of his head, gaze unfocused as he calculated angles in his head. “From the position of the wound, I would say she…”

Henry trailed off. Jo’s face had gone pale, her shoulders stiff and tense as she stared at him. He hastily dropped his hand.

_In my experience._

A very poor choice of wording. He was not used to sharing the world of his work, which overlapped his intimate relationship with death, with anyone who knew where much of his knowledge sprang from. Especially when that someone was on very tentative ground with the entire concept.

“So you’re saying it was suicide?” Hanson’s brow was crinkled in confusion at Henry’s abruptly abandoned thoughts. Henry stripped off his gloves slowly to cover his lapse and gather a response.

“Possible, but with this level of struggle, I think it unlikely. There was at least one other person involved, according to her injuries. She may have been coerced in order to make it look like a suicide.”

“Great, now we just need to figure out who she is.” Hanson flipped his notebook closed and tucked it into his inner jacket pocket.

Jo, who was regaining some of her composure and colour, nodded her agreement. She stooped down on the opposite side of the body from Henry, but her attention was on the jeans pocket on one hip, which bulged slightly. She rooted inside it and pulled out a set of keys. Flipping them in her hand, she held up a blue and red keychain for inspection.

“‘Far Horizons Flight School,’” Jo read aloud. She made a thoughtful noise, then stood up. “Think our vic wanted to be a pilot?”

“With luck, the flight school knows who she is,” Henry said.

“I’ll give ‘em a call and see what I can find out.” Hanson pulled his phone from his pocket and walked away.

Jo and Henry were left facing each other over the body.

“Sorry I’ve been avoiding you,” Jo said.

The admission took Henry by surprise.

“I assumed when you were ready to talk, you would let me know,” he said.

“Yeah. It’s taken a while to get my head around things.”

“I see. Have you had any luck?”

On the afternoon where Jo had come looking for answers, cornering him with a picture plucked from his past, he’d told her the salient facts—which boiled down to surprisingly few. The picture was of his family, and he explained both Abe and Abigail to her. He was over two hundred years old, and did not age, and the mechanics of his death and rebirth accounted for most of his odd behaviour. The rest was thanks to an immortal shadow Henry had not asked for, but had been forced to deal with—a man who’d murdered his wife, and threatened to take Henry’s life and friends from him.

Getting that far with Jo had taken most of the night. He’d been hoarse by the time he was done, and was only greeted by her blank silence. As an offer of good faith, he’d let Jo look through his laboratory, to see the physical items that connected him to the past. She’d plucked items from shelves at random, as if spot-checking his story. Had she thought she’d find fake books filled with empty pages, like his home was an elaborately staged hoax meant to fool her?

She’d pulled one of his journals from the shelves to flip through it; one of his oldest, from before the turn of the Twentieth Century, when he’d still been hopeful that he’d see an end to his state, eagerly plunging himself into every modern medical advancement with enthusiasm, running endless tests on himself in hopes one might explain his condition. The look she’d given him when she lifted her gaze from the page to him—the confusion, the horror, the fear…

She cut their night short after that. He’d not been able to get a personal word with her since.

“That flight school is in New Jersey.” Hanson’s voice cut in. He was strolling back to them, his hand in a fist and stretched out towards Jo. “They’ve got an instructor matching our vic’s description. You wanna rock-paper-scissors for who gets the honour of the hour drive?”

Jo held out her fist and on the count of three bobs she kept her fist tight, while Hanson spread his hand flat, palm down. By Jo’s exasperated sigh and Hanson’s victorious grin, Henry assumed that she’d lost the little game of chance.

“Fine, I’ll get out there and see what I can find,” she said. She turned to Henry. “You want to ride along? If you don’t need to get right back to the morgue.”

Her tone was deceptively casual, but the subtext of her offer was very clear: _I’m ready to talk if you are._

He wasn’t sure he wanted to be trapped for an hour with only conversation to keep them occupied, even if he was eager to know where they stood, but he couldn’t refuse her first overture.

“Lucas, could you arrange for the body to be taken back to the morgue and get the autopsy started?”

He half-hoped Lucas would find some reason he needed to attend to the preliminaries, but Lucas didn’t even look up from where he was taking notes on the position of the body.

“Yup, I got this. Have fun in the wilds of New Jersey.”

And that was that.

“I’d be pleased to accompany you, Detective.”

Jo nodded hesitantly, and Henry suspected she similarly hoped there’d be a reason to put this off.

“Give me a few minutes to check in with the cops who taped off the scene, and I’ll meet you at the car.”

Jo turned on her heel with Hanson at her side chatting over plans to divvy up their investigative workload. Lucas straightened up and came to stand next to Henry, arms folded over the clipboard pressed to his chest.

“I don’t think you’re out of the doghouse yet,” Lucas said. “You ask me, I think she’s still ticked about the pugio thing—or whatever it was about, because someone _still_ hasn’t told me,” Lucas said, his tone a pointed prompt. “But I didn’t get fired, and you didn’t get fired, so I assume whatever you said to her—“

“Whatever I said was between me and Detective Martinez,” he said, cutting Lucas off. If this was the alternative to being stuck in a car for an hour, he’d take the car.

“Okay. Right, yeah. Sorry.”

Lucas’ wounded air was unmistakable, and Henry’s guilt flared once again. He owed the young man so much more than he could say, and definitely more than the meagre thanks he’d offered before he left to face Adam. At the time, he’d assumed it would be the last words he and Lucas would exchange. Instead it had been business as usual the next day. Lucas hadn’t pressed at first, likely because he wasn’t eager to highlight his own role in the theft of evidence, but his broad hints were less subtle with each passing day.

Lucas started turned away, but Henry put a hand on Lucas’ arm to stop him.

“I’m sorry, Lucas. Given what you risked on my behalf, I am in your debt. I realize I’ve been less than forthcoming about the details, but the matter is finally closed and I’m eager to move on. I hope you can understand. It’s been…” he searched for some way to describe the emotional roller coaster of the past weeks. “It’s been difficult.”

Lucas’ expression softened, taking on the same quiet empathy he’d borne looking across the table over Abigail’s bones. It was horribly exposing to have colleagues—friends—who now had so many windows into his private life, but he still hoped he could unsnarl the knots Adam had tied in his life.

“Yeah, I understand. Good luck, I guess…”

Lucas trailed off as he spoke, gazing with a furrowed brow at something over Henry’s shoulder. Before Henry could ask, Lucas pushed past and bent to examine the bushes lining the grassy patch. Henry joined him, and Lucas scooped one dusty pink globe of blooms and nudged it towards Henry for his inspection.

“The night I met Sabrina at the movie marathon, she was wearing a shirt exactly this colour. So she must like this colour, right? Flowers and colour—that’s gotta show I’m paying attention and care, right? I could get her a bouquet of these…whatever they are.”

“They’re hydrangeas,” Henry supplied. “Matching the colour may be a challenge, as they are a natural barometer for soil pH balance. They’re typically cultivated in blue for commercial sale. However, it’s a fine choice—in the language of flowers, hydrangeas mean heartfelt gratitude for understanding. That might fit your needs.” Henry examined the blooms. “On the other hand, they can also mean frigidity and heartlessness.”

“Oh.” Lucas pulled at his chin in thought. “Any flowers that mean ‘I promise I’m not going to mess up this time, please like me I think you’re amazing?’”

“I believe you’ll need an extensive variety of flowers to convey that particular sentiment,” Henry said. He glanced at Jo, who was still talking with Hanson. “But if you figure out the combination, be sure to tell me if it works.”

 

***

 

“Flight has always appealed to the human spirit.” Henry watched out the window as the city fell away behind them. “In 1909, at the Hudson-Fulton Celebration, the Wright Brothers demonstrated their airplanes with rides around the Statue of Liberty. Now it’s commonplace to see machines zipping across the sky, but then? There were millions of people, all captivated, staring upwards to catch a glimpse of metal hurtling through the sky.”

Jo had stopped responding to his conversational gambits about fifteen minutes back, instead letting him natter on to fill the gulf between them, but this time she glanced over at him.

“You were one of those millions of people. 1909, watching airplanes fly for the first time.”

“Well, that wasn’t the first time airplanes flew, of course. The first manned flight, while only short, was conducted in—“

“Henry.”

He swallowed down the rest of his nervous rambling.

“Yes. I was there.”

The elephant in the car had been acknowledged by both of them. Jo’s fingers tightened on the wheel, and the muscles of her jaw tensed as she ground her teeth together. She shook her head with a short humourless laugh.

“Just when I think I’m getting used to it. Then it’s, ’I saw airplanes fly in 1909.’ Or ‘I know how people shoot themselves in the head.’”

“Jo,” he said, closing his eyes with a wince. “When I said—I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You’re not even a _little_ bit subtle. I can’t believe I didn’t…” She huffed in frustration and didn’t finish the thought.

“I’m sorry, Jo. I don’t know what to say to make this easier.”

The car engine’s whine pitched up as her tension got the best of her, the car racing along with her thoughts, and it was another five seconds of silence before she took a deep breath and her speed moderated along with the conscious relaxation.

“Your, uh…” She cleared her throat, like the term _immortality_ was stuck in it and refused to come out. “Your condition. That’s not what I want to talk about.”

The night she’d come to his door with the photo, he’d answered all her questions as best he could, trying to help her understand who he was, but he’d known in time she’d return with a thousand more. He hadn’t expected it to be about anything else other than the very obvious, impossible issue.

“Then what do you wish to discuss?”

Jo signalled and changed lanes, and their speed dropped as she took an exit off the highway towards the airfield. She waited until they were well off the highway before she glanced at him again.

“You’ve lied to me. A lot.”

“Jo, I told you why—“

“I know. ‘Because you had to.’ But I’m not talking about the…the stuff about you. The last month, all the running around behind my back? I could toss you in jail in a second for the things you did—things that had _nothing_ to do with hiding your life and protecting yourself.”

Henry looked out the window and away from her accusations. He’d known it from the moment he decided to steal the pugio that Jo might never forgive him. Even though hints of guilt lingered in the very far, quiet corners of his mind about what he’d done to Adam, what he’d done to his friendship with Jo, it was buried deep beneath the bitter satisfaction and he wasn’t sorry for what he’d done.

“I was trying to protect you, Jo.”

“I get that, but you’re not above the law, Henry. Maybe you think you’re indestructible, but that doesn’t mean you get to run off on your own and handle it however you want.”

“I _am_ indestructible. You must admit that has its uses when it comes to investigation.”

“Procedures exist for a reason. I get that when it comes to your life there’s some things you say you can’t avoid, like fudging birth dates or paperwork or whatever. But evidence tampering? Coercing witnesses? You’ve been on a personal vendetta. I can’t let you do things like that.”

A personal vendetta. Of a sort, he supposed. One that had been thrust upon him, not one he’d sought out.

“Maybe I was wrong, Jo, but I didn’t know what else to do. I care about you, and Abe, and the other people in my life. I didn’t want anyone else hurt because of me. Adam took too much already.”

She bit her bottom lip as she darted another glance at him. He’d let himself get upset, and his own voice had risen sharply. He turned away from her to focus on the empty fields surrounding the access road to the little airport. They were already green and shaggy with the fresh spring grass. The entire world was starting over—perhaps he soon would be, too.

Jo sighed heavily.

“If that had happened to Sean… I might have done the same thing in your position. To wonder that long must have been hell.”

It wasn’t forgiveness, but it was at least a shadow of understanding.

They rolled into a large open parking lot by an airplane hangar, and Jo shut off the engine and turned to Henry. She looked him over silently, assessing and prying at whatever she could glean from him. He’d grown used to the cautious look she wore when she was around him, the one that had settled in and never left when she’d held out her hand for the pugio he’d fully intended to plunge into Adam’s heart should it be him that stepped through the door, but it still pained him to know he’d so rightfully earned it.

“Am I on probation, then?” he asked.

“How about we try doing things by the book from now on and see how it goes. Keep things simple.”

“I believe I can manage that,” he said. “You have my word, Detective.”

Her expression relaxed, the curve of her lips softening into a smile, and Henry echoed the expression, drawn in immediately. Henry tamped down hard on the swell of warmth she inspired in him; keeping things simple did not involve indulging his feelings for her, no matter how much they kept butting to the fore of his thoughts.

“Great.” Her firm confidence faltered and her eyes darted away as she tucked her hair behind her ears. “Okay. Good.”

“And…” She paused in her reach for the door handle as he cut in quickly, and he licked his lips with nervous unease. “The rest of it. My immortality. Is it really as simple as that—you believe me?”

There was a visible flinch when he used the term, and his heart sank. However, he held his tongue as she relaxed into her seat again, mouth pursed.

“It’s, uh…taking some time to settle in.” She gave him another tentative smile, a welcome sight. “No more supernatural surprises for a while, okay? If aliens are real, or the government’s got secret telepaths or something, don’t tell me. I’m still working on this one.”

Her gentle tease triggered a relief so powerful that Henry struggled to keep his composure. His unsteady exhale gave him away, and Jo gave him a quick and reassuring pat on the hand. She got out of the car before he could respond in kind.

Henry had a second chance—a rare thing in life. Patience and honesty was all she asked in return. Neither were his strongest suit, but he’d do his best.


	2. Chapter 2

Far Horizons Flight School was located in a hangar on the far edge of the Essex County Airport. It sat in the middle of empty tarmac where a small aircraft runway ran next to acres of open grass fields. A pole with a prototypical orange and white striped conical windsock stood a distance from the building, flapping merrily in the spring breeze as the chain clanked against the metal pole.

As Jo and Henry walked past the small two-seater airplane parked outside the open hangar doors, Henry peeked into the cockpit. The dash was a sea of dials, buttons, and switches, only a fraction of which he could identify. Like modern cars, which Henry found far too complicated for his tastes, airplanes also had become overly complex in the intervening years since his last interaction with one.

“Early flying machines were simple devices compared to this,” he said as they headed for the office. “Yaw, pitch, and roll, with easy to understand controls. Actually, I got to sit inside the Wright Brothers first aircraft at the World’s Fair in—“

“Henry, let’s save the history lessons for later, okay?” Jo said, reaching for the handle on the glass door.

With Jo aware of his direct experiences, it was no longer idle chatter. His simple conversational gambit had distracted her, and he could see her visibly working to regather her concentration for the task at hand. He tucked his hands in his jacket.

“Yes. Sorry.”

He’d have to moderate himself better, thought it would be a challenge; sharing his meandering thoughts was akin to stretching aching muscles. However, Jo was not quite ready for thinking of him as more than the medical examiner partner she’d always known.

Perhaps in time. Henry followed Jo through the door.

From the moment they crossed the threshold, it was obvious that the staff of Far Horizons Flight School were having a very bad day.

A young man wearing a navy blue polo shirt with the flight school logo, a red stylized airplane with the school name emblazoned behind it like a jet trail, cowered behind a standing counter that spanned the back wall. Three women faced him like a firing squad, each in varying states of displeasure.

One, a tall woman in spandex exercise gear, with long hair in a ponytail that swayed back and forth with each irritated wave of her hands, was haranguing him at top volume.

“I took the day off work, wasted one of my holiday days, and she can’t be bothered to show?”

“I’m sorry Ms. Eliot, it must have been a scheduling error—“

“This is the second time!” Ms. Eliot slapped her credit card on the counter with a bang. “Forget it. I want a full refund on my card for all four lessons.”

“I’m sorry, I’m not sure I can do that right now. I’ll need to speak with—“

“Me too.” The second woman, elderly and petite, with close-cropped greying blonde hair, spoke overtop of him in a soft but stern voice. “My instructor didn’t show either, with no notice. This isn’t very professional.” She looked to the third woman standing next to her for confirmation. “Is it?”

“No, not very professional. I’d like a refund too, please.” Her plump, round face had a heavy sprinkle of freckles across her nose and cheeks, making her look younger than Henry’s estimate of late fifties. She slipped her credit card onto the counter along with the other two. She was flushed with embarrassment, and looked like she wished she were anywhere else than involved in this conflict.

“I’m so sorry about this,” the man said, glancing back over his shoulder towards the doorway in the wall behind him. “I’m not sure what’s going on, but I’ll try to find out.”

“I don’t care what happened, I want my money back!” Eliot’s ponytail swished as she looked away from him with a scoff of disgust.

“Looks like we’re on the right track,” Jo said to Henry, and then raised her voice to cut through the argument. “Hi, excuse me?”

The young man—Michael, according to his name badge—looked past the scrum line of antagonists towards Henry and Jo. From the droop of his shoulders, it was clear he expected another two irritated students were about to join the fray.

“Detective Jo Martinez with the NYPD. My colleague, Dr. Morgan.” Jo pulled aside her jacket to flash the badge on her belt.

“NYPD?” Michael gaped at them, then glanced over his shoulder behind him before scanning the five people facing him. “Uh, I have to get my boss. Just a minute.”

Without waiting for a response, he disappeared through the doorway behind him into the hall. There were a few doors on the hall and a break room beyond, and Michael disappeared into one.

Henry craned his neck, then took a step to the side to see if he could get a further glimpse, but Jo poked him in the side. She shot him a narrow-eyed gaze that clearly read as _don’t wander off_. Henry clasped his hands in front of him and settled, doing his best to look as compliant and docile as possible.

Appeasing Jo was clearly going to be a full-time occupation. With luck, after a few investigations, she would start to trust him again.

“The police, here?” said the short blonde woman, arms folded across her chest. “What’s going on?”

“We’re following up on an investigation. Did you say your instructor didn’t turn up today?”

Henry looked around the office while Jo spoke to the frustrated students. The outer wall was all glass, giving a full view of the runway. Five flimsy office chairs lined the side inner wall and served as a waiting area, and a large rubber tree took up the entire corner, drooping over a table littered with aviation-related magazines.

Above the chair backs, the wall was covered in framed photos of people in pairs, standing posed in front of a bevy of small two-seater aircraft—graduating students with instructors, all proudly holding a certificate in front of them. Henry peered at one picture, then plucked it from the wall and brought it back to the group.

“I believe this is our victim.” He handed the picture to Jo.

Next to an elderly man with a prodigious moustache, wearing the navy flight school polo shirt uniform, was the dead woman from St. Vartan’s Park.

In life, her features were stern and determined, her smile stiff and formal as she draped her arm over the shoulders of her student. Her dark wavy hair was gathered in a clip, a few tendrils blowing in an unseen breeze, frozen in one moment in time.

Jo took the framed picture and turned it towards the three women.

“Is this your instructor?” she asked.

“Yes, that’s Geri. Geri Glasser,” added Eliot, elaborating as Jo prompted her with a raised eyebrow. Her indignation was fading into caution. “Did you say ’victim?’”

“When was the last time any of you saw her?” Jo looked at all three to encompass them all in the question.

“My lessons are only once a month,” said Eliot. “We were doing cockpit work on the ground last time, and this month I was supposed to finally get some flight hours. My lesson was two days ago, but she didn’t show. I was rescheduled for today.”

“She’s not my teacher anymore. Used to be, but now I’m with Lazaro Molina,” said the woman with blonde hair. She held out her hand to Jo. “Hi, I’m Soriah Mattheson. Did something happen to Lazaro, too?”

“There’s _two_ missing instructors? That certainly can’t be a coincidence.” Henry turned to address the third woman, whose embarrassed blush had yet to fade. “Or is it three? Is your instructor missing as well?”

“No, no—or yes, I suppose. My instructor is Lazaro, too.”

“And when’s the last time you saw him?”

“I had a lesson last week.” She wrung her hands together as she bit her lip, her distress growing as her pale complexion flushed pink again.

“Was there a problem?” Jo persisted, her eyes narrowed. “You were asking for a refund.”

“Oh, well. Yes, I was going to do the whole qualification program, but I didn’t… I changed my mind.” She looked at her shuffling feet with a sniff as her eyes took on a shine.

“There, there.” Mattheson touched her on the arm and gave her a reassuring, maternal pat. “I understand exactly. I had the same experience with him.”

She sniffled again and gave a silent nod. Mattheson pulled a small tissue package from her handbag and offered it to her, and she took one with a grateful murmured thanks.

“I’ve been a high school teacher for twenty years, and teen or adult, no one learns a thing if you’re berating them all the time. We all paid good money to come here and learn to fly, not be verbally abused,” said Mattheson. “Besides, a short fuse is one thing, but I’m _sure_ last week when I came for my lesson he smelled like alcohol. I’m not going up in a plane with someone who’s been drinking.”

“Ugh,” Eliot said, her lip curling. “When I get home I am writing a Yelp review about this. No one should come here. This place is a disaster.”

From the doorway to the back, Michael appeared, followed hard upon by his boss, also in the ubiquitous navy flight school polo shirt. By the look on her face she’d overheard the last comment. She had a forced smile firmly in place as she ducked around the counter to meet them, arms spread wide.

“Ladies, Michael has your names and numbers. He will get in touch shortly. We’re going to be open again tomorrow. Thank you, have a good day.”

With the relentless, immovable force of a nightclub bouncer, she shepherded the three women towards the entrance as she spoke. All three started to sputter, but in an impressive quick show of combined willpower and physical intimidation, she had them out the door and the door locked in seconds. The three milled in front of the glass window for a moment, gaping at each other at how quickly and rudely they’d been dismissed, before they all wandered away towards the parking area.

“Hi. Janet Figg. I’m the owner.” She held out her hand to Jo and then Henry. Her grip was hard and brusque. “Now, what the hell is this about?”

“We believe that your instructor, Geri Glasser, was found dead this morning.” Jo pulled up a photo on her phone and called up a picture of the victim.

Figg’s wince in response to the photograph was nearly unnoticeable—Janet Figg either had a well-practiced stiff upper lip, or she wasn’t very moved by the sight of a dead colleague. She set her hands on her hips with an unhappy grunt.

“That’s Geri. Dammit, I thought she’d just flaked out again. What happened?”

“She was found in Midtown this morning, shot.”

“Midtown? Manhattan?” Figg frowned at them in confusion. “What the hell was she doing there? She lives in Jersey City.”

“We were hoping you might be able to tell us.”

“No idea.” Figg rubbed her temples with the tips of two fingers. “Ugh, this is a nightmare. She’s got five students I’ll have to reschedule. There’s no way I can get a replacement on this short notice, and Lazaro’s not answering his damned phone…” She let out a frustrated sigh. “I’m going to have to fly today. _And_ I’m going to have to find a new permanent instructor.”

Her mercenary ramblings struck a sour note with Henry. He cleared his throat pointedly.

“Now might not the time to be concerned with staffing issues.”

“Obviously you’ve never owned a small business. It’s always the time,” Figg scoffed. At Jo and Henry’s silent stares, she bent a little. “Look, I’m sorry, but between Geri and Lazaro, the last three months have been a nightmare.”

“What do you mean?” Jo asked.

“Geri was completely off her game. Crying in the break room, if you can believe it.” She said it with a curled lip, like emotion was the ultimate unforgivable sin.

“And that wasn’t typical of her?”

“No, she used to be a rock. But lately she was absent, juggling students around to different times and other instructors, missing flight lessons—I warned her she was going to lose her job if she couldn’t keep it together.”

“What brought it on?” Jo pulled out her notebook from her pocket and flipped it open. “Do you know if anything happened?”

“With Lazaro being weird too, I figured it had something to do with the two of them. They’ve been on-again, off-again for years. I don’t care what you do in your free time, but when it shows up at work? I’ve got no time for that. Lazaro was flat-out driving students away with his attitude.”

“Where can we find this Mr. Molina?” Henry asked as Jo scribbled down a quick note in her notebook.

“Michael! Get these two Lazaro’s address and number.” Figg’s bellow to the secretary made him jump, and he straightened up from where he’d been leaning on the counter doing a poor show of not eavesdropping. Figg turned back to Henry and Jo. “Excuse me, if we’re done, I’ve got a lot of phone calls to make.”

“If he comes back in the meantime, let us know. We’ll need to talk to him,” Jo said.

“If you talk to him first, tell him not to bother coming back. He’s fired.” Figg went into the back hallway, and the door to her office slammed shut.

Jo rolled her eyes at Henry.

“She’s not too broken up about it,” she murmured.

“Ms. Figg appears much more concerned with the bottom line than the fate of her employees,” Henry agreed.

Behind the counter, Michael, who’d barely been breathing the entire time his boss had been in the room, slumped with relief. When he saw that Jo and Henry noted his attitude, he bowed his head to his computer screen and hid his face.

“I’ll get you that info,” Michael said.

“Thanks. If you could give me Geri Glasser’s as well, that would be very helpful,” Jo said. She leaned against the desk with casual grace, smiling at Michael. “Been quite a morning.”

Michael nodded vigorously, floppy dark bangs falling in his face to nearly cover his eyes. Jo won an instant trust from him—she was probably the only person to treat him decently today. Henry hid his amusement as Jo tilted her head and made a noise of sympathetic, patient understanding. She had a knack for coaxing information from people without their realizing it.

Henry had fallen victim to that skill of hers many times over the last year of their association.

She’d teased out bits and pieces of Henry’s life, his experiences, all in small doses. In quiet moments at crime scenes while they waited for CSU to finish a sweep, in lulls between suspect interviews or when she lingered after an autopsy report, she’d systematically gathered up the scattered crumbs he’d unintentionally dropped. She’d told him once that someday she’d have the truth from him. Now, here they were.

He wondered if she regretted that patient campaign, if she wished she could go back to blissful ignorance of how deep the rabbit hole of Henry’s life went.

“You been here long?” Jo asked Michael. “Did you know Geri or Lazaro well?”

“Not really, just to say hi. I’m out here with clients doing the intake and billing stuff, and they’re either in the hangar or up there,” he said, pointing towards the ceiling and the sky beyond. He darted another nervous glance towards the doorway, and then leaned towards Jo. “I’ve only been here nine months, but between you and me, I’ve been applying for jobs,” Michael said in a hushed voice. “This place barely keeps going as it is. This is going to sink it, and I do _not_ want to be around when that happens.”

To underscore his point, there was loud, muffled cursing from the direction of Janet Figg’s office, and a thud. Michael winced, and returned his attention to the computer. He tapped a key and the printer next to him started chugging and spitting out a piece of paper.

“Found dead in the city. I guess you never really know what people are like outside of work,” Michael said.

Jo’s gaze slid towards Henry. He bounced on his toes lightly, hoping his discomfort wasn’t completely obvious.

“Anyway, here’s their addresses. Do you really think Lazaro had something to do with Geri?” Michael’s eyes were wide at the drama of the situation.

“Just want to talk to him. Thanks for your help,” Jo said, dismissing his gossipy prying.

Jo beckoned for Henry to follow her, and they went for the door. Michael called after them.

“Uh, by the way—do you think the NYPD is hiring?”

“I’ll let you know,” she said with a smile.

Outside, Jo flipped her notebook closed and put it in her pocket as they walked to the car.

“Angry ex with a drinking problem,” Jo said with a sigh. “There it is. Time to track down Lazaro Molina.”

“Yes, but what would two flight instructors from New Jersey be doing in Manhattan in the middle of the night on a Tuesday, far from any popular eateries or clubs? If he was intent on killing her, there less public and considerably more convenient locations out here.” Henry gestured to the expanse of open space around them.

“Guess we’ll have to ask him,” Jo said. “I’ll call it in and have unis swing by his place to see if he’s there.”

Henry glanced at the aircraft again as they passed, stooping to see if he could spot the mechanism for controlling the flaps, or whether or not they were internal gadgets now. He straightened and caught Jo watching him with a lopsided smile. He smiled back, determined to keep his thoughts to himself, but Jo rolled her eyes with an exaggerated wave of her hand.

“Alright, fine, Henry. How about on the drive back you tell me all about aviation in the 20th Century before you burst?”

Jo had a suspiciously knowing twinkle in her eye, and Henry chuckled, only a little embarrassed at how transparent he was.

“It would be my pleasure, Detective.”

“I bet it would.”

 

***

 

Henry had a renewed spring in his step when he made it back to the morgue, despite the fact it was nearing the end of the day. The trip back had been significantly less tense than the drive out to the airfield, and he could almost pretend that he and Jo were on normal footing.

Lucas was the only person left in the morgue. He was bent in concentration, earbuds in place. Geri Glasser’s body was stretched out on the slab, and her clothing and possessions were in the process of being catalogued and bagged for evidence. Lucas looked up when Henry neared. He straightened and stretched his back, dropping a few receipts on the table.

“Hiya, Henry. How’d it go? Jo chew you a new one, or—“

“Find anything interesting?” Henry interrupted pointedly.

Henry was starting to regret giving Lucas such a large window into his personal affairs, if this continuous “buddy-buddy” attitude was his reward. Henry had boundaries to reset on all sides. He had a flash of longing for the simplicity of his days only a year ago when he could come to work, do his job, go home again…

“Okay, then,” Lucas drawled. He shrugged, distressingly undaunted by Henry’s reproval. “Well, she didn’t have a wallet or any identification on her, so I ran her prints. Military record confirmed her ID: Geri Glasser, aged 42. Cause of death, GSW to the head—no surprises there.”

“The bruising around her neck is consistent with a great deal of applied force.” Henry circled around the slab and peered over the body. “Her attacker must have nearly choked her to the point of unconsciousness.”

He straightened up, and his attention was drawn to a flash of colour behind Lucas. A clutch of dusty pink hydrangeas was tucked in the corner on a table, stuffed into an empty beaker. Lucas noticed his shift and grimaced.

“Uh, yeah. Pretend you didn’t see that.”

“Lucas, when is your date? Saturday? I doubt very much they’re going to last long enough to impress your paramour.”

“No, no—I looked it up, hydrangeas last real well in water. And I don’t know the next time I’m going to get a conveniently roped off park and private time to steal flowers…” He trailed off, rethinking his words. “Not that it’s _really_ stealing, you know, because it’s only flowers.” His mouth dropped open with sudden dismay. “Oh god, it’s only flowers. Do flowers even work these days? Is that still a thing?”

Henry shook his head in despair as Lucas rolled off again in the direction of worrying about his upcoming date. He tuned out the rambling and scanned over the possessions from Geri Glasser’s pockets instead. Keys, a few receipts from a sandwich shop and a sporting goods store, nicotine gum for smoking cessation—and a wooden baton.

Henry picked up the baton and turned it over in his hands. The wood was warm, made of a dark hardwood he couldn’t identify. It was burnished smooth and had a dull shine, like it had been oiled with care. The shape was subtly hour-glassed shape, about two feet in length, and when he held it in his hand like a club he noted gentle grooving that fit the baton into his grip comfortably.

“Yeah, I wondered about that,” Lucas said, gesturing towards it with his elbow as he stripped off his gloves. “I dusted it for prints, but it was clean. She had it tucked into her boot, under her pant leg.”

“Curious,” Henry said, swinging it experimentally. It had a decent heft. “A weapon?”

“Maybe, but it’s not shaped like a club or anything,” Lucas said. “And look, it’s got a grip on each side.”

Lucas reached across the metal rolling cart littered with evidence bags and took the other end of the baton. The grip on his side was a mirror image to Henry’s, and they held it between them as though they were shaking right hands.

“Hm,” Henry grunted in thought. “I wonder what—“

His throat choked shut and his muscles seized as his body stiffened. His hand clenched tight around the baton, completely beyond his control, and the sensation of his blood pressure dropping sucked all the feeling from his limbs and replaced it with a cold tingling sensation. Henry tried to struggle, but only succeeding in staggering into the rolling evidence cart, knocking Lucas back. Lucas’ face was ashen and gaping.

The sounds of the OCME faded away as his vision narrowed, like he was being thrust into death, through the confusing flashes of garbled memories and emotions that heralded each reawakening.

He swore he saw a glimpse of his own face, panicked and gasping, before the dark swallowed him whole.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update will be at the end of the week!

 

Sight returned first, and Henry couldn’t understand why he was looking at a ceiling when he opened his eyes. Not a familiar ceiling, either; white speckled fire-retardant tiling.

Several long seconds later, the bubble of silence around him imploded. The ringing in his ears cross-faded with the quiet hum of air filtration systems and fluorescent lighting.

When Henry rolled his head to the side, he saw a body lying beyond the rolling legs of a metal table, limbs twisted in disarray, only two feet and a long dark coat visible.

He struggled to sit, but he was disoriented and his body didn’t respond as he expected—he moved with too much speed and his head reeled. Eventually he managed to get to his hands and knees, and then up to his feet. He was in the morgue, and everything looked…smaller. Or was he imagining that?

He’d been with Lucas, with the body of Geri Glasser. They’d…something. He looked around for Lucas.

The body on the floor. Oh, no.

Henry swivelled around and grabbed the edge of the slab when he lost his balance. He looked down and thought he might vomit, either from vertigo or sheer confusion.

He was lying on the floor.

No, he was standing. But the body lying on the floor was him— _looked_ like him.

Henry Morgan was standing and staring down at his own prone body.

_I’m dead. I didn’t think this was what it would be like._

Was he was stuck on earth as a ghost? That was worse than immortality. His heart pounded in his ears.

His ears. His heart. He clamped a hand to his chest. Tangible rhythm, cloth beneath his hands, a solid chest.

No, still here.

He breathed a sigh of relief, which was followed hard upon by the bemusement that this was the second time in as many weeks he’d had the rush of relief that it wasn’t over yet. Maybe he was finally getting the hang of everlasting life.

“About time,” he muttered.

That wasn’t his voice.

That was _Lucas’_ voice resonating through his head.

Instinctively he jerked around to look behind him, but Lucas wasn’t there. Henry staggered as his feet tangled, as though all his limbs were in the wrong places, and he banged into the rolling table and knocked it against the body on the floor.

A soft groan. Brown eyes he’d only ever seen in the mirror blinked open, set in a face that shouldn’t be looking up at him from the floor. He could be mistaken, but… No. Two hundred years of an unchanging visage, he’d know it in any circumstances.

“Wow, I’m having an out of body experience.” Henry’s mouth, Henry’s voice, forming flat American vowels under someone else’s direction. A pause, and a glance around. “You know, if this is the afterlife, I’m feeling a little ripped off that it looks like work.”

The cadence, the flow, the phrasing; the gawping expression that met him was unfamiliar on his features, but on another face…

“Lucas?” he croaked.

Henry took a step back as his own body scrambled up to face him, weaving unsteadily, gaze fixed over his shoulder.

“Um…”

Henry swung around. Reflected in the glass panels that separated the morgue autopsy bay from the bank of cold storage fridges, were Henry and Lucas.

Henry lifted his hand. Lucas’ semi-transparent reflection in the glass did so in return.

Next to him, Lucas put his hand over his face—Henry’s face—and in the glass, Henry’s reflection did so.

It was like a twisted child’s game, each copying the motions of the other.

Henry looked down at his hands and found large palms and long fingers that were miles too big. He was dressed in a blue scrubs shirt pulled over a long-sleeved t-shirt, denim jeans, Lucas’ sneakers on Lucas’ feet. Everything was disproportionate when viewed from Lucas’ extra five inches of height, like being on stilts. When he looked over at his proper body, the one he _should_ be in, he was… well, he looked rather small from up here.

“Henry?” The nasal accent in his voice was unmistakable. Lucas whipped around to him, hands on pale cheeks that weren’t his. “Are we… Is this real?”

Lucas poked Henry in the chest with a finger, hard enough that it hurt. Henry flinched with a grunt and rubbed at the spot. That was real enough.

“Okay, this is not nearly as cool as it sounds in the movies,” Lucas said.

“I was standing there—I was looking at the table…” Items of clothing and the various contents of Geri Glasser’s pockets were scattered over the floor, knocked asunder by his uncoordinated flailing. Henry groped through garbled memories of the last few minutes. Keys, receipts, gum… “I was looking at—”

“The stick thing!” Lucas finished.

Henry was treated to the singularly unique view of his own backside as Lucas twisted around with an unstable twirl and leapt for the wooden baton that had rolled against the foot of the slab. He straightened and brandished it with manic energy.

“This! This thing! You had it, and I had it, and there was that jolt—did it feel like you were having a seizure too?”

“Yes, but —“

“Here! Just take it!”

Lucas stabbed it towards him, and automatically Henry grabbed it. His fingers settled against the wood, slipping into the gentle finger grooves. The wood was cool and unforgiving rather than warm, more like marble than hardwood.

They stood there, both staring dumbly at their hands. Lucas gave it a little shake, then a bigger one, and Henry tightened his grip to keep hold. Lucas shook harder still, sending shock waves up Henry’s arm.

Nothing happened.

“It’s wood,” Henry said. He tugged and it slipped from Lucas’ grip. The wood shone in the morgue’s fluorescent lights, but there was nothing remarkable about it. “It’s only wood, it shouldn’t have…”

“Let me see it.” Lucas snatched it from his hand and held it close to his face. “Gotta be a cryptic riddle on here somewhere on how to reverse it.”

Henry put a hand up to run his fingers through his hair and jerked away when he touched straight, fine hair that had no business being on his head. His arm was longer than he expected, and he knocked a pair of forceps off the table next to him, which set him stumbling back. Everything was wrong—he knew himself to the last hair, to the last crease in his skin, knew every flex and bend and reach, had spent 200 years every day the same, always the same, and this was all _wrong_ —

“Henry? Henry! Don’t pass out again!”

Fists grabbed his shirt. He was hyperventilating, and the mirror of his emotion was painted on his face under the control of someone else.

“I have to get out of here,” he wheezed.

Home, safety. In public meant exposure; he had to hide before someone found him and could see his unnatural state, before they caught him. He grabbed the wrist that was his, that was the right size and shape in the grip of these overlarge hands, and started pulling as he headed for the door. Like hell was he leaving his own damned body behind.

“Henry, wait! Stop!” Lucas balked, and Henry was jerked to a halt. Lucas waved a hand back behind him towards the slab. “We can’t leave a body sitting out!”

Geri Glasser’s corpse was still lying on the table, decomposing with every minute it was out of the cooler. The concrete recall to his duties cut through Henry’s panic and put order to his thoughts. Ms. Glasser deserved respect in death, as did everyone.

“Yes—yes,” he stuttered, “you’re right.”

On unsteady scarecrow legs he trailed after himself—after _Lucas_ —and stationed himself at the body’s feet while Lucas took the shoulders. They heaved the body onto the stretcher, and despite some more clumsy bumbling from both of them, managed to get it into the fridge.

Lucas put his back to the fridge, puffing at heaving the weight around.

“Damn, Henry. You’re short. It’s hard getting leverage down here.”

“According to growth charts for American males, I am above the average height,” Henry sniffed. “You’re unusually tall.”

“This is a bad dream. I fell asleep watching _Freaky Friday_ after smoking a little too much of the good stuff and I’m going to wake up any second now.” Lucas scrunched his eyes and tipped his head back against the metal fridge door with a thunk. He lifted his head and thunked it again. “Any second now.”

Henry wasn’t so sure, this felt very real. And it was only Wednesday.

Henry had been victim to crimes against the natural order for long enough that he was able to determine when he’d run afoul of another. Though he was a scientist and a skeptic, he had deep faith in his own senses. He had to, or he’d have gone mad over the years, with only his own solitary understanding of his condition to assure him that yes, he was experiencing it.

Terror was clawing its way up again. Henry struggled for calm breath. He was sweating profusely, clothes sticking to his neck. He never sweated like this, not unless he had a fever or was running. Every sense was off; smells unfamiliar, the scratch and pull of clothing on his skin subtly wrong—even his vision seemed different. He groped to loosen his tie and undo the button at his throat, but his fingers found the soft cotton of a t-shirt instead, not a dress shirt and tie.

“We have to figure out what happened.” He blinked and wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “And fix it. Immediately. This is intolerable. I have to…”

His head was swimming again. Lucas directed him to a chair and shoved him into it.

“You’re going to make me pass out, dude. I’ve got low blood pressure. When I was in college I used to pass out whenever I got up too fast. They used to call me the fainting goat after those goats, that, you know.” Lucas stiffened his arms and legs, splaying them out in all directions, with a rictus of shock on his face that looked desperately foolish on Henry’s features.

“Myotonia congenita.” He leaned forward and put his head between his knees, and the dizzy sensation faded. “They experience a prolonged contraction of the muscle cells, they don’t faint.”

“Now I _know_ you’re Henry for sure,” Lucas said. He collapsed to the floor and sat cross-legged. “Okay…yeah. Tests. I still think this is mystical curse territory, but tests are good.”

He looked up. Lucas was starting to look peaky as well. He brought shaking hands up and started poking over Henry’s features as though trying to figure out the shape of his new face.

Action was required. Henry gathered himself together by force of will and stood—slowly, this time.

“At the very least a more comfortable place to discuss this than the morgue will give us time to determine if this is some elaborate hysterical fantasy, or joint drug-induced hallucination.”

“You think it is?” Lucas got to his feet.

“It’s possible.”

Henry clung to the hope, even if it was false.

“Hey, Henry?  You still here?”  Jo’s voice rang through the empty morgue.  
  
_No, no no no…  No one can know, no one—_  
  
Henry’s first reflex to run was thwarted as Lucas stepped away from him and started for the door.  
  
“Detective Martinez!  You are not going to believe—“  
  
Centuries of instinct took over.  
  
Henry hooked Lucas by the back of the collar and yanked him back, throttling him in the process.  Lucas flailed and stumbled back as Henry shushed him with quiet urgency, and he knocked Henry off balance, halting Henry’s retreat as they grabbed at each other to try and right themselves.  
  
Footsteps. Jo came into sight.    
  
“Uh—you guys okay?”  She stopped in the doorway, obviously bemused by their half-grapple, half-embrace.

Henry cut Lucas off before he could speak as leaned heavily on Lucas’ shoulders with his hands.

“I’m not feeling well. Henry was going to take me home.” His American accent was rusty, and the New York dialect he’d developed was completely unlike Lucas’ mushy, relaxed pronunciation, but he rattled the excuse off anyway.

Jo cocked her head to the side at the odd response.

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that, Lucas.”

Lucas, blessedly deciding to follow Henry’s lead, scooped an arm around behind his back and shored him up. He nodded vigorously.

“Yeah… Yes! Yes, very unfortunate. Must have been spoiled mayonnaise in his tuna salad this afternoon.” He raised his chin with an aloof air. “Was there something you needed, Detective?”

Henry’s American accent might be lacking, but Lucas’ attempt at proper Received Pronunciation was horrible enough to belong in bad vaudeville melodrama. Jo frowned as she lifted her hand. She had an evidence bag with a pistol inside.

“We think we’ve got the murder weapon. It was buried under those flower bushes in the park, about ten feet from the body.”

“Ah yes, hydrangeas.” Lucas stuck a finger in the air as he said it, like a mockery of a lecturing professor, and Henry pinched Lucas’ shoulder in warning before he could say more. Lucas shut his mouth and hastily dropped his hand, and Henry straightened up cautiously. He was still dizzy and disoriented, and no trial at all to put on a show of feeling out of sorts, but Lucas was doing a terrible job of acting like a very normal Henry.

“Whatever, Henry. Hydrangeas, sure,” Jo said, and Henry relaxed a hair as she rolled her eyes. “The point is I’m going to take it down to get ballistics on it tomorrow, but I was hoping you could pull some prints on it. Oh, did you find anything on an address for Glasser in her things? I had a squad car go check out her address, and the landlord said she moved out six weeks ago, no forwarding address. Next of kin is all out of state, and she was a ‘phone call home at Christmas’ kind of girl, so they haven’t spoken with her in months.”

“Uh—“ Henry prompted Lucas with another squeeze of his shoulder, and Lucas fell silent, instead shaking his head ‘no.’

“Henry, are _you_ okay?” Jo frowned and took a few steps towards them, her eyes narrow and sharp.

He very much wasn’t, and needed to be at home and safe where he could figure out what the hell had gone wrong. He could barely explain the well-understood realities of his life—how could he possibly explain this?

Before Jo could ask anything else, and before Lucas could say something foolish in answer, Henry grabbed his stomach and groaned theatrically. He stooped and grabbed hold of Lucas’ shoulder as he gave a show of stumbling, nearly dragging Lucas with him. Lucas yelped and managed to get his footing and prop him up again.

“I should get home quickly,” Henry said. “Dr. Morgan, would you mind…?”

Lucas made a wordless noise of agreement, blessedly recognizing his terrible vocal acting skills. Henry directed the rush towards the door, and Jo was forced to step aside as they came through.

“Do you need a ride?” Jo asked as she followed them.

“No! No, taxi is good,” Henry shouted over his shoulder.

“But—um, the gun?”

“Leave it on m—Henry’s desk!” Henry hurried Lucas along as much as he could without breaking into a run.

“Okay… Henry, I’ll catch up with you tomorrow?”

“Mm-hmm!” Lucas grunted, keeping Henry’s staggering weight upright.

They were though the double doors to the hallway, and once they were out of sight Henry grabbed Lucas by the bicep and hustled him to the stairs before Jo could pursue them further.

“Henry! What the hell, man?”

He would get this sorted before he had to explain yet another unworldly complication in his life to Jo Martinez. Her understanding was already stretched to the breaking point, and he did not intend to push his luck any further. He would sort this out and be done with it.

“Move,” he hissed, and thrust Lucas through the fire door into the stairwell.

 

***

 

Henry kept his eyes closed for most of the ride. As the cab wove through traffic, he gulped down nausea, never quite catching himself in time to compensate against turns, bumping into Lucas seated next to him at one sharp left turn.

Lucas had Henry’s pocket watch in his palm, watching the second hand tick round. It was like voyeuristically spying on himself performing an action he’d done hundreds of thousands of times, one that was familiar from the inside out; like someone had caught him on film, and Henry was watching the playback.

The creeping invasiveness of seeing Lucas manipulate his body and his possessions set his heart fluttering unpleasantly. Henry reached over and put his hand over the pocket watch and clicked the cover closed. Lucas started and looked up with the open-mouthed, half-guilty half-surprised gape he bore whenever Henry’s bark caught Lucas off-guard.

“I’ve never seen it up close before. Just looking, sorry. It’s really cool. Where did you get it?”

The petty territorialism was unbecoming of him. Henry took his hand back and forced a smile.

“A gift from a friend,” he said. They were only a few blocks from the store, it wouldn’t be long before he could be free of this vehicle and the motion sickness. No need to take it out on Lucas.

“You can go through my pockets if you want. Nothing too exciting in there. I guess there’s my driver’s license picture. That thing is a couple years old, and I went through this phase where I thought long hair would be a good idea. Not _long_ long, but sort of Beatles 1967 Sergeant Pepper’s era long.”

Henry had a vague recollection of Abe idolizing the Beatles. Those were the years in which he bit his tongue as with every successive visit home from college Abe’s hair and beard grew more unkempt.

“That’ll be twelve bucks,” said the cabbie from the front.

Only when Henry’s fingers were in the unfamiliar leather bill-fold finding nothing but receipts did he realize what he was doing. Lucas was left-handed, and Henry had plucked the wallet from his left rear pocket and flipped it open with unconscious ease.

Lucas, for his part, held Henry’s wallet with a similar sense of confusion. Henry dropped Lucas’ bill-fold into his lap and reached for his own wallet. He pulled out a twenty and thrust it at the cabbie through the narrow sliver of scarred plexiglass left open between the front and the back of the cab.

“Keep the change,” he said, eager to be done with this and in his home.

He hurried to the door of the shop as Lucas trailed behind him, and he tugged at the handle. Locked. Right, Abe wouldn’t be home until late tonight. Excellent, that meant time to sort this out and send Lucas on his way.

He reached into his pocket for his keys… which were not there.

“I’ve been thinking,” Lucas said behind him. “There’s lots of examples going way back, not just movies and remakes and stuff about people switching consciousnesses. “Most people don’t know that _Freaky Friday_ is a remake, which is a travesty. Jodie Foster, man, classic stuff. But on the other hand, Lindsey Lohan. Gotta admit I mighta been in it for her the first few times I watched it, but—“

Henry ground his teeth together to keep in the bright bubble of frustration. Nothing was right, nothing was familiar, every breath felt like a struggle, and Lucas _wouldn’t stop talking_. He flipped around to glare at Lucas, fully expecting to tilt his head back to see him, carried away into his own little fantasy land, and…

And only saw himself. Without the direct gaze returned as when one looked in the mirror, instead eyes turned off to the left and focused on memories and thoughts, Henry saw himself in profile. A rather strong profile—were his nose and chin really that sharp?

Henry shuddered and closed his eyes. This had to stop, and fast.

“May I have my keys?” The words were tight and forced, kept short, because the sound of Lucas’ voice coming from his mouth disturbed him more than listening to Lucas prattle on in Henry’s voice.

“Oh. Oh, yeah. Here.”

Lucas fumbled through Henry’s coat pockets until he found the set of keys, and Henry wasted no time in getting the lock undone. He crossed the store in long strides—fewer than normal—with Lucas trailing behind.

“And there’s ‘The Non-Super Superman’ from the run of comics in the 40’s or 50’s or something, and Superman and Jimmy Olsen run across this alien artifact—see? It’s always an artifact, I’m telling you—and they switch. ‘Course, then Jimmy’s stuck with superpowers, and Superman’s gotta get used to being an average guy.” Lucas paused, humming thoughtfully. “Man, superpowers would be great. Think I’m going to get your deductive abilities?”

“Go upstairs,” Henry said sharply, unable to take it any longer. He pointed to the upstairs staircase without looking at Lucas. “I’ll be right there.”

“Okay, sure. Ooh, wait—you haven’t been talking to any Tibetan monks lately, have you? There’s this one movie—”

Henry descended the stairs to his laboratory as fast as he could without falling down them in search of his medical bag.

Lucas might find comfort in his tales, but Henry had read enough nonsense about immortality over the years to know that while humanity might occasionally stumble into grains of truth in their stories, there was very little to be learned from them.

When Bram Stoker’s seminal work on vampires became all the rage at the dawn of the 20th Century, Henry finally gave up on trying to glean anything about his own curse from fictional flights of fancy. If anything, all these stories made his life harder. Around 1902, a pair of panicky young men out boating had seen Henry drown and then resurface from the same lake, naked. Thinking him a vampire set to suck their blood in the pursuit of everlasting youth and vitality, they’d driven a broken branch through his chest. An incredibly unpleasant death, that one.

There was nothing to be learned from Lucas’ comic books and movies.

After tearing his lab apart for a few minutes, Henry finally located the medical bag tucked away on the bottom shelf of the book case behind his desk. He’d forgotten where he’d put it after Abe reclaimed it for him, meaning to oil the leather and give it some loving treatment. He skipped back up the stairs with an unfamiliar spring in his step. He was glad to be out of the lab; everything felt small and claustrophobic down there. Lucas’ damned height was endlessly disorienting.

_“Henry, stop. I’ve told you that accent is the worst.”_

Abe’s voice floated down from the apartment above.

Abe wasn’t supposed to be home until late tonight. What was he doing home?

With a curse Henry sprinted up the last few steps from the basement, careening into the wall opposite the staircase as he took the corner poorly on the landing and round for the next flight of stairs up to the apartment.

“I don’t care if you practice another hundred years, you’re never going to sound American.”

Oh, _damn._

“Abe!” Henry cried out, shouting up the stairs ahead of him as he scrambled up them. “Abe! Stop!”

“What the hell?” Abe came out of the living room and stopped short as Henry tumbled onto the top landing, panting and gasping for breath. “Lucas? What are you doing here?”

Behind Abe, Lucas appeared. He’d stripped off Henry’s jacket, tie, and waistcoat, and untucked Henry’s dress shirt to leave it loose over his trousers like a wrinkled and untidy apron. Lucas mouthed silent apologies while gesticulating wildly towards Abe, but stopped hastily when Abe peered back over his shoulder at him.

“I’m Henry,” Henry said, hand on his chest as he walked towards Abe. “There was some kind of accident, and now I look like Lucas. He’s Lucas, even though he looks…” Henry waved up and down at him, then huffed in disgust at his sloppy appearance. “Well, look at how he comports himself! It’s obviously not _me_.”

Lucas gave him an affronted look, then jerked a thumb towards Abe.

“Oh, so it’s okay to tell _him_?” Lucas demanded.

“This is not the strangest thing he’s had to contend with,” Henry assured him.

“Okay, okay, wait—wait, let’s back it up,” Abe said, slicing the air between them with his hand to stop the back and forth exchange. He looked between the two of them. “Now, I’m pretty sure April Fool’s Day was last month, so can someone explain to me what’s going on here?”

Henry physically flinched at the immediate suspicion. Of all the people who’d thought him mad, of all the people who’d doubted him over the years, the idea of _Abe_ not believing him…

“Of the two of us, I am not the April Fool’s prankster in this home, Abraham,” he blurted, seizing on inspiration. “I haven’t yet forgiven you for the vaseline in the earpieces of my stethoscope.”

Abe’s brow creased in confusion, and then his mouth dropped open. The prank had been an ill-conceived venture when he was eight, and had led to a very irate conversation when Henry got home from work that afternoon still cleaning the unpleasant goopy mess from his inner ear.

“Henry?”

“Yes, Abe.” He breathed a sigh of relief.

“Oh my god.” Abe put a hand to his forehead. “This is weird, even for you.”

 

***

 

“Temperature normal, blood pressure normal, voluntary and involuntary reflexes normal, no sign of toxins or drugs…” Henry collapsed into the chair next Lucas as he tossed the blood pressure cuff down on the kitchen table. “Everything about us is normal except for the obvious.”

Henry buried his face in his hands. It was rather like being attacked by giant face-smothering spiders—Lucas’ hands were massive. He crossed his arms and tucked his hands tight beneath his armpits instead.

“Henry…” Lucas leaned forward in his chair and tucked his hands between his knees. “I don’t want to put a damper on the house call treatment here, but maybe we should go to the hospital or something? Get brain scans, maybe?”

“That depends,” Henry said with a sigh. “How do you think they would determine that we’ve actually exchanged places?”

“Well, it sounds a little crazy, but we’ve got each others’ personal knowledge and everything. Pretty easy for anyone who knows us to tell.”

“Circumstantial. There is no medical precedent or physical explanation for our condition. The only conclusion is that it is psychiatric in nature. Manic delusion.”

“Yeah, but—“

“At which point, we’re deemed a danger to ourselves,” he continued. “Keep us in for observation, testing to see if we really do continue to have these flawed self-perceptions. Medication to see if the psychosis can be suppressed. That’s several months of observation at least. Of course nothing changes, because you can’t manage to be someone you’re not, and so they up the dosage. Further observation, further psychological testing, more medication, until we forget who we actually were in the first place.”

Henry’s breathing was harsh through his nose, and he was on his feet looming over Lucas. Henry grabbed up the pen lying by the paper with his scratched notes on his tests, intending to write the last blood pressure measurements, but stopped.

The pencil was in his left hand.

Even though Henry was functionally ambidextrous—lots of time on a person’s hands meant developing many a skill—he had a strong, natural preference for his right. But now, when he hadn’t thought about it, had acted on instinct, physical muscle memory had taken over.

Not his muscle memory, but Lucas’. Henry threw the pencil down, leaned both hands on the table and dropped his head. He needed to slow his breathing, he was getting dizzy again.

“Has this… Has this happened to you before?” Lucas asked.

 _Are you immortal?_ When Henry had bad nights, when stress got the best of him, he could hear the echo of the question, of water flowing in his nostrils and choking him, of the chains holding him down and cruel fists raining down blows. Grasping for the last shred of sanity to remember who he was, what he was, lying until he nearly believed it himself…

Henry straightened up and shook his head. He shoved the blood pressure cuff back in his bag.

“No. A hypothetical situation, but the likely outcome. We will have to determine a way out of this situation ourselves, because I assure you there is no one who is going to readily believe us or help us. We are very much on our own, Lucas.”

Abe cleared his throat, and Henry looked over at him.

“Why don’t you call it a night? You guys could probably use some rest,” Abe said. He tipped his head meaningfully towards Lucas.

Lucas had shrunk in the chair and his attention was wholly focused inward.

Henry had terrified the boy.

Lucas had kept up good spirits since they’d awoken like this, full of energy and ideas—if foolish ones—and coping far better than Henry with the nonsensical chaos. Only now had Henry succeeded in knocking hope from his grasp.

“I’m sorry, Lucas, I didn’t mean to…” But he had meant to; an extended lifetime’s worth of bitter cynicism wielded like a knife, intended to wound. He tried again, with a softer tone. “I’m sure we will find a solution. We have each other, and we have Abe’s help.”

Lucas sniffed and wiped at his eyes, then looking at the damp back of his hand with consternation. Henry knew himself to tear up easily, and apparently Lucas was now forced to deal with that particular quirk.

“Yeah, I know. Sorry, it’s fine, just tired. I think you’re right Abe, I need to get a little shut-eye.”

Abe glared at Henry, and then patted Lucas on the back.

“Come on, follow me. You can crash here. If you have to put up with Henry’s body, then you can have Henry’s bed.”

Henry packed everything back into his bag as Lucas trailed after Abe without protest into the back of the apartment. Just as well—sleeping in his own bed would be yet another reminder of how nothing fit, how his body was a constant betrayal. He was getting used to it, his sense of balance improving. Lucas had slightly better vision than he did, which was why everything had felt so sharp and grating when he’d first opened his eyes. His own vision wasn’t bad enough to require correction, but he did not have the eagle-eye precision that Lucas did at a distance. He distracted himself for a time by squinting at the bookshelf on the far side of the room and trying to read out titles.

“What are you doing?”

Henry straightened his head, surprised by Abe creeping up on him.

“I was—er, nothing.” He put the last few items in his medical bag and snapped it shut. “Is Lucas settled for the night?”

“Yeah, he is. You should go easy on the kid. You’ve got experience, but this is his first go around the supernatural block.”

“‘Experience,’” Henry scoffed. “I assure you, nothing in my lifetime has prepared me for this.”

“How are you doing?” Abe pulled a chair out and twisted it towards Henry, sitting in it.

“It is…very unpleasant.”

“Yeah, I bet.” Abe wrinkled his nose as he peered into Henry’s face. “Everything you’re saying, the way you move and act, I know it’s gotta be you under there, but my brain says I’m looking at Lucas.”

“This isn’t a delusion, is it?” Henry grasped for Abe’s hand and caught him in a handshake grip, hoping to find some flaw in his perception that would give the game away. Abe’s hand was firm and tangible, even if dwarfed by Lucas’ large hands. “Some leave with reality?”

Abe squeezed his hand back. Yes, this was real.

“I’m pretty sure I’m fine,” Abe said, “and to _me_ , you look like Lucas and he looks like you.” He released Henry’s hand. “He gonna stay with us for a while?”

“Yes, until we fix this. He has possession of my body, and I don’t want him wandering off with it.”

“Yeah, I can see why.” Abe leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Because, Henry, I was thinking about it… who’s the immortal one? You, or Lucas?”

Henry was dumbfounded. The question had not occurred to him.

What was immortal—his body or his soul? Given that the two had never been parted, he’d never had occasion to wonder.

He might be mortal right now.

Lucas aged; Henry had seen the faint signs in the last four years as he matured, the smallest shift of hair line, the deepening of creases in his skin, the few greys that appeared in his facial hair over time. If Henry stayed like this, would he experience aging?

Or could he die? He might be able to die.

“Could be a real permanent answer if you try to test it out. Unless you wait long enough to see who gets old first.”

Henry blinked out of his thoughts to find Abe watching him with piercing focus, seemingly able to read his thoughts. Henry’s stomach turned at the idea of being stuck in Lucas’ body long enough to determine if he’d age, and he’d never risk killing himself and forcing Lucas into whatever fate befell him.

But to be mortal again…

“I’m sure it’s all going to be back to normal soon. You got an ideas on what to happened?”

Henry shook his head to dislodge the dark thoughts.

“No, not really. There was an item on Glasser’s person, a wooden baton. We both touched it—there was nothing else out of the ordinary, but I don’t know how it could have caused this.”

Henry went to fetch his overcoat from where Lucas had left it draped across the arm of the sofa, and pulled out the baton. Before giving it to Abe, he got a transparent plastic bag from the kitchen and put it inside. In case anything else odd came from it, he didn’t want to put Abe at risk.

“I was hoping you might be able to do some research and see if there’s anything similar that’s been seen in the antiques world.”

Abe pulled his glasses from his pocket and slipped them on, and turned the bag over in his hands.

“Doesn’t look like much. Can’t say I’ve seen anything similar, but I’ll see what I can find. Maybe I can figure out what kind of wood it is—if it’s exotic, that might help narrow things down.”

Henry nodded and collapsed into the chair again. All the up and down adrenaline surges of the day had drained him.

“You sure you’re gonna be okay?” Abe asked, looking at him over the rims of his glasses.

“The last time my body changed in any significant way was when I went through puberty before the dawn of the 19th Century,” Henry said. He rubbed at his temples. “I’ve grown very used to it. I don’t know how Lucas is so calm, I am finding this…”

“Hang in there, Henry. We’re going to get you both through this. But in the meantime, get some sleep. Poor Lucas looks like crap.” Abe gestured to Henry’s face and the hollow-eyed visage he wore.

Henry huffed a short laugh and went to fetch himself blankets for the couch.

 

***

 

The buzz of voices from the kitchen was indistinct from Henry’s room, even when Lucas opened the door a crack and pressed to it to see if he could make anything out.

Lucas had the feeling he’d been sent away while the grownups talked. In a situation where he was pretty damned involved, that rankled.

Even worse, one of the voices coming from far away was his own. He had no idea his voice sounded so high. Those few times he’d acted in his student films and really heard himself, he thought it was normally a lot deeper. But Henry had a way of getting squeakier when he was flapping around all excited, so maybe it had more to do with him than Lucas’ voice.

Unable to get anything from the conversation, Lucas closed the door and leaned against it.

The room that met him was all dark furniture and rich colours, tasteful and old-fashioned. Books, mementos, and pictures crowded on every surface in a way that could have been messy, but instead had a cluttered elegance. It was a lot like Henry himself.

“I’m in Henry Morgan’s bedroom,” he said to himself.

He was in Henry Morgan’s _body_ in Henry Morgan’s bedroom.

This was not what he meant when he thought it would be cool to get to know Henry outside of work.

Up until now, the entire evening had been a psychedelic, 3D fully-immersive IMAX experience, and Lucas had forgone worrying about the long-term in favour of seeing the world through _literally_ another person’s eyes. This should have been the ultimate crazy adventure, a singular opportunity he couldn’t pass up.

But as Lucas sat there watching his own body behaving like Henry, measuring reflexes and drawing blood and running substance tests and peering in his eyes and ears, declaring that there was no reason for any of this, it got real. With every minute that passed with him stuffed into a body that felt too small and light, in clothes that restricted and tugged in the wrong places, it got even more real.

When Abe walked him down the corridor and handed him towels and dug out a pair of Henry’s pyjamas with, “Guess these are gonna fit you fine,” Lucas hit the point of no return.

It was all stunningly, pedantically, incredibly boringly real, and he didn’t think it was very fun anymore.

_We are very much on our own, Lucas._

Henry sounded so sure, and Henry was almost always right.

Always one to do things on his own schedule, Lucas started to freak out.

He was so tired, and this was still happening, and didn’t seem like it was going to go away. Lucas felt tears in his eyes again. Man, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried—well, he could, but he’d been really drunk and everyone was singing Journey, and he wasn’t totally made of stone, so. However, he wasn’t normally this emotional. It was like Henry’s body had a mind of its own.

A mind that was currently elsewhere doing things with Lucas’ body, and if Lucas was going to be stuck in here, the least he could have was full control.

No such luck. Lucas sniffed and wiped away the moisture again on the sleeve of Henry’s dress shirt.

Okay, he had to get it together or he was going to be footing the dry cleaning bill for snivelling all over Henry’s fancy clothes.

Time to pretend this was like any other night; crashing at a buddy’s house after a movie marathon, or after a cram session for an exam. The fact that it was Henry’s house and that duvet on the bedspread looked like it cost more than Lucas’ entire apartment didn’t matter. He’d make himself at home and not worry about it.

Lucas picked up the pyjamas and got as far as the first two buttons on the dress shirt before he stopped.

There were limits to his pretending ability. Undressing and seeing his boss naked was taking this from crashing at a friend’s to one-night-stand booty call territory. That was a sight he couldn’t unsee.

Since there was a chance he was going to wake up tomorrow in his body, he was going to spare himself. Henry’s clothes could take being slept in for one night.

Lucas flopped on the edge of the bed with a groan and plucked at the laces on Henry’s shoes. He kicked them off his feet and scooted back onto the bed and lay down on top of the covers.

Feather duvet, feather pillows, and a mattress that was like sinking into a cloud.

“This is fantastic,” he said, muscles already coming unglued and sleep grabbing at him the moment he was prone. Oddly enough, the word sounded just like Henry in all his stuffy Britishness.

Sleep was imperative. He was done for the day, there was nothing left in him.

At least in his dreams, he was himself. And tomorrow, when he opened his eyes, he’d be back to normal, and he and Henry would laugh about that really bizarre time when they both inhaled toxic hallucinogenic spores or something and thought they were in each others’ bodies.

That last comforting thought accompanied him down into sleep, and Lucas started to snore.


	4. Chapter 4

Lucas woke to the sound of rustling nearby.

His body ached from sleeping in one position too long, but he didn’t want to move; the bed was incredibly comfortable. He must have fallen asleep hard last night.

The rustling again. Had rats gotten into the apartment?

Lucas scrubbed his eyes with his fists and blinked the sleep from his eyes. Instead of the framed original 1974 _Blood Orgy of the She-Devils_ movie poster above the bed, ladies in prim white dresses with parasols amidst watery impressionist blotches of green and gold stared down at him. Not a print, either; that was an authentic-looking oil paint-on-canvas job.

He’d passed out in an art gallery—the most comfortable art gallery ever.

“Ah, good, you’re awake.”

Lucas’ head snapped up, and he had a minor heart attack when his own head popped out of the walk-in closet to look at him. Lucas looked down at himself. He was still on top of the duvet, still in Henry’s clothes—still in Henry’s body.

“So we didn’t go back to normal,” Lucas said. Yep, still Henry’s voice.

“It doesn’t appear so.” Henry made Lucas’ features look so much more serious than Lucas ever managed.

“I guess it was dumb to think it would be that easy. There’s always a ritual or something that has to happen first.” Lucas relaxed back onto the pillow with a sigh and closed his eyes.

“You say these things like they are fact. Works of fiction have little bearing on reality, Lucas.”

“How do you know?” Lucas said. He rolled onto his side and sat up on the edge of the bed. “Stories’ve gotta start somewhere. I think it’s worth doing some investigating.”

“There we are in agreement,” Henry said. He turned his attention to the walk in closet once more and stepped inside. “We must re-examine everything that happened immediately prior to the switch. We may have missed something.” Henry emerged with a suit, shirt, and tie in his hands and laid them on the bed at Lucas’ side before giving Lucas a once-over. “Did you sleep in those?”

The rhetorical question had all of Henry’s disapproving lecture tone, and Lucas tugged at the hopelessly wrinkled dress shirt to try and straighten it out.

“Never mind,” Henry said. “Shower, change, and then we practice.”

“Practicing what?”

“Our theatrical debut, Lucas! The very unexpected roles of a lifetime. You are going to learn to be me, and I am going to learn to be you.”

‘You’re chipper this morning,” Lucas mumbled. Somewhere in the night, Henry had siphoned off all of Lucas’ energy along with his body.

“A solid sleep does a body—anyone’s body—a world of good. Upon sober reflection this morning, I realized we need to go back to the morgue and study the scene of the event in minute detail. In order to do that we will need to navigate our workplace. Which means,” Henry waved his hand to the clean clothes, “we must be ‘ourselves.’”

Lucas propped himself up. Consciousness hit him properly, and all kinds of things ached and creaked in ways he wasn’t used to—and one important issue leapt to the front of the queue.

Oh no, he had to _pee_.

“What’s wrong?” Henry asked.

“Not sure how to say this, but if I’m still stuck in your body, there’s a few things I’m gonna need to take care of.”

Henry got the squinty look he got when he was puzzling something out, but it made Lucas’ face look like he had a headache rather than being thoughtful and smart. Lucas gestured towards the en suite bathroom, and finally Henry got to the _ah-ha_ moment of understanding.

“Biological necessity will not wait for our wayward consciousnesses to return, so there are a number of realities that we must resign ourselves to. Do what you must, Lucas. I already have.”

That image didn’t make Lucas feel any better, but if Henry was going to take the practical approach to this and not make a fuss, then Lucas could step up and do the same. _What Would Henry Do?_ was his go-to when he needed to get through something without making an ass of himself, and it was pretty a pretty appropriate mantra now that he had to _be_ Henry.

Lucas hopped out of bed and started for the bathroom, but Henry scooped the clothes off the bed and thrust them into his arms.

“Take these. And please, shower. My hair is atrocious. The conditioner has a tendency to linger, so be sure to rinse thoroughly. And you’ll need to shave. No, second thought, just get clean, I’ll do my hair and shave. You—”

“Henry, dude. I promise I’m not going to mess up the digs, alright?” Lucas put the clothes under his arm and shifted on his feet. “Now, if you don’t mind, things are getting a little urgent here.”

Henry waved Lucas on towards the bathroom with obvious embarrassment.

“Yes, yes. Go on. I’ll prepare breakfast.” He fled the bedroom and clicked the door closed behind him.

Lucas dumped the clothes on a little bench in the bathroom. A big dose of not thinking about it went a long way, and aside from some spot-checking his aim, he spent most of his time staring at the ceiling like it was a public mens room.

That was only going to get him so far, though. He still had to shower.

“Sorry, Henry, but we’re getting personal.”

He unbuttoned Henry’s dress shirt, which had become a wrinkled mess overnight. He shrugged it off and pulled off the white undershirt beneath.

The white shirt flashed in the mirror in the corner of his eye, and he glanced up at it—only to immediately flinch back.

In the mirror, Henry Morgan reared back in surprise, naked from the waist-up with a halo of brown out of control curls, facial hair that, with an added night’s growth, made very nearly a proper beard—and a vicious ugly scar across his chest.

Lucas put a hand to his chest, and his borrowed body did the same in the mirror. It was desensitized scar tissue, lumpy and numb, and nearly the size of his palm.

“Holy crap, Henry. What the hell happened?”

The Henry in the mirror did not answer, only stared back at Lucas with Lucas’ shock twisting up his features.

But it was obvious; Lucas had seen enough gunshot wounds over the years to recognize one. Henry had been shot in the chest. With a scar this big, it had to have been close range, and a large gauge.

Man, Henry was one tough bastard if he managed to survive a shot like this.

After another few minutes of poking and prodding, and a little bit of flexing to see what it would look like if Henry decided to strip down and put on a gun show, Lucas finished undressing and got in the shower.

Yep, everything in order.

Depressingly perfect order.

Lucas had scored rent-free living in the body of a sophisticated, well-dressed, handsome, stupidly chiseled guy with the firmest butt he’d ever touched. All those high school fantasies of waking up as the hot guy everyone either wanted or wanted to be had come true.

Meanwhile, Henry was stuck with Lucas’ six-foot-four-inches of lanky awkwardness. Lucas was over the worst of his self-consciousness, all the hunkering and slouching to try and hide his height, and he knew that looks-wise he wasn’t a total wreck of a human being or anything…

But he wasn’t Henry.

To think, some people got to glide through life looking like they stepped out of a catalogue. Must be nice.

The hot water sluiced over him and he closed his eyes against the soapy rinse, fingers scrubbing firmly over his scalp. The air was steamy and humid from the shower. He’d forgotten to turn on a fan, and the bathroom was turning into a sauna after—

He almost sucked in a lung full of water.

He’d been in here a long time. He’d washed and shampooed himself automatically while his mind wandered, time passing unmarked, habit taking over while Lucas rode along like a passenger in a self-driving car.

He leaned on the shower wall. His heart was hammering so hard he thought he’d vomit.

It wasn’t the first time—in the taxi, the wallet thing, when he’d reached for it and pulled it out like he knew exactly what he was doing. Actions he wasn’t controlling, tears he hadn’t ordered, all this stuff happening without his volition, like he’d been possessed.

Lucas took a deep breath to calm himself down. It happened when he wasn’t thinking, little things that obviously Henry did enough that he didn’t think about it much either. Could he do it on purpose?

The rest of getting ready for the day was all routine stuff. If Henry was half the creature of habit Lucas took him for, he probably did it exactly the same way every day, and had done his whole life. If Lucas could figure out how to daydream his way through it, maybe Henry’s body would get dressed for him. However, trying to daydream was as successful as trying to hiccup on command. He eventually gave up and pulled on Henry’s clothes, trying his best to get his reflection to match the Henry he saw every day.

He delayed as long as he could, until he couldn’t avoid it any longer—time to go be Henry.

 

***

 

Henry and Abe were chatting quietly when Lucas came down the hall, but stopped as soon as Lucas appeared in the room. They looked up from the table as one.

Now that didn’t make a guy feel paranoid at _all_.

Lucas didn’t linger on it, because the smell of bacon and eggs set his stomach growling. He couldn’t remember when he last ate—which wouldn’t really matter, because that would be Henry’s problem right now. Lucas’ concern was when Henry last ate, and since they’d missed dinner last night, that would have been sometime late yesterday afternoon before they’d switched.

“Good timing. Everything’s ready, have a seat. Coffee?” Abe beckoned him to the table.

“Yeah, thanks.”

He slid into the place set at the table for him and pulled a napkin from the side, giving it an automatic flick and draping it across his lap. He picked up his fork and knife and cut a piece of the fried egg, was about to lift it to his lips, but Abe was staring at him with open-mouthed fascination.

“What?”

“Yes, what is it?” Henry asked, leaning forward. “Abe?”

“We’ve eaten breakfast together enough that I can tell you, Henry, you’ve got a way of doing things. In my whole, uh, my whole time of knowing you, you’ve done that napkin flick.” He mimed a little flip of his hand. “Just like that, like Lucas did it.”

Henry picked the napkin up off his lap and repeated the action, and laid it back on his lap.

“What, like that? It’s not so unique, Abe.”

“Yeah, but it was _exactly_ like that. You’ve got a pretty distinctive way about you, it’s hard to miss.” Abe picked up his napkin and mimed the flip again, then once more as he _tsk_ ed and tried to perfect Henry’s style. “Nope, not quite. See? Told you, it’s a thing you do.”

The three of them were like matadors with capes taunting bulls, what with all the flipping going on, but Abe was right. Lucas put his fork down on the edge of his plate and leaned his elbows on the table.

“Stuff like that keeps happening,” he said. “I keep doing things that I think Henry does. Habits, routines, whatever.”

Abe gave up on flicking the napkin and threw it on the table next to his plate. Henry nodded reluctantly when Abe gave him a questioning look.

“As do I. It’s happened a few times now, mostly when I’m not thinking about it deeply.”

“Yes, exactly,” Lucas said, relieved that it wasn’t just him.

Both Henry and Abe looked at him with shock, and he snatched his elbows off the table in case it was a manners thing. Abe leaned towards him and narrowed his eyes.

“Say that again.”

“Say what? What are you talking about?”

“You heard it too, right?” Abe said to Henry.

“Yes, definitely.”

“Yes, definitely what?” Lucas flopped back in his seat. Breakfast was not happening with these two staring at him like he was a bug that had crawled onto the table.

“Have you been practicing my accent?” Henry asked.

“No, I…” Oh. Lucas put a hand on his throat like he could feel something there. In his irritation, the shape of the words had morphed and reformed. “No, I wasn’t trying to do it.”

“It’s gone again,” Abe tugged at his chin as he considered the two of them. “Well, maybe an accent is like muscle memory. Your mouth is used to spitting things out a certain way, and you don’t think about it too hard…” He shrugged, hands wide, at Henry’s dubious expression. “I dunno. Call up all those experts you know on people changing bodies if you want other opinions.”

Lucas licked his tongue over unfamiliar teeth and stretched his mouth. The words had a different weight to them with that accent, like everything was happening elsewhere in his mouth. Maybe if he didn’t think, but let it come out—

“My name is Doctor Henry Morgan.”

That brought the room to a standstill. All the colour sucked out of Henry’s borrowed face, and Abe leaned forward to peer at Lucas for a long few seconds.

“But…you’re still Lucas, right?”

“Yeah, still Lucas. Hey, I think I’ve got the hang of it.”

The accent was sticking, his words being piped through a Lucas-to-Henry vocal translator. It was like learning to wiggle your ears—once you had hold of the right muscles it was no problem, but trying to think about it too hard made it impossible.

Henry swallowed a few times, then tentatively said, “I’m Lucas Wahl.”

It wasn’t quite right, a mix between Henry’s faked American accent and Lucas’ own, but there was something in there. Henry shook his head and flattened his lips—a very Henry-like expression.

“I think if you concentrate too much on it, it gets harder to do,” Lucas said. “And if I say things you would normally say, it gets easier.” The words rattled out in Henry’s accent, each sentence getting smoother, and Lucas grinned. Damn, he sounded convincing.

“What, like, ‘Hey Doctor Morgan, _Blood, Gore, and Zombies_ is at the cinema, wanna grab a brew and hang?’”

Henry slouched forward with his elbows on the table, hand framing an imaginary movie billboard. The accent was perfect.

Abe snickered into his hand, and Henry gave Lucas a smug smile.

“Okay, that sounded pretty good,” Lucas said grudgingly, slipping back to his own normal accent. “But it’s ‘movies,’ not ‘cinema.’” He pointed a finger at Henry. “And I’ve definitely never said ‘grab a brew and hang.’ And It’s _Pride and Prejudice and Zombies_ , not… Geez, Henry.”

“I think I understand how to do it,” Henry said, and his British accent was back as well. “Interesting how many residuals are left despite our consciousnesses being displaced.”

“Sure, now if you can not sound like you crawled out of a time capsule from 1905, then maybe we’ll get somewhere.” He grabbed up his fork and knife and shovelled a bite of food into his mouth before something else weird could happen and put him off his breakfast again.

Abe chuckled, and this time Henry shot him a dirty look. He stood and took a brief look at Lucas stuffing food into his face and cringed.

“When you’re done inhaling that—and please do consider chewing—come to the bathroom and I’ll fix my hair for you,” Henry said.

Henry strode out of the room with all the relaxed ease of the Queen’s Guard patrolling Buckingham Palace. Lucas was going to have to persuade Henry to loosen up a little bit if they were going to figure this out. But on the other side, Lucas was going to have to remember that Henry walked like he had a stack of books on his head, along with that little kick of his toes and bounce in each step. This was going to take a lot of practice.

Lucas downed the coffee after the toast and eggs, and wiped his face with his napkin. A flick and a roll, and the napkin was wadded up and beside his plate.

Abe folded his arms and shook his head.

“Amazing. If you didn’t eat like I was going to steal your plate away from you any second, coulda been Henry sitting there.”

“Yeah, but it’s not. Lucas Wahl, here but not quite here.” Lucas made jazz hands in the air, but he couldn’t actually work up enough of a smile to keep the joke from falling flat. It wasn’t that funny, anyway. “Uh, well. Thanks for breakfast.”

He stood to clear his plate, but Abe waved him off.

“Nah, I got it. Go get ready for your day. I think Henry wants to get to the morgue before people start coming in.”

“Okay, thanks.”

As Lucas returned to Henry’s room, he passed an antique mirror hung in the hall above a little table, and once again he did the double-take of thinking Henry was walking by him, only to see his own reactions wrapped up in the wrong package.

Lucas leaned into the mirror and inspected Henry’s face staring back at him. Even though it was Henry, Lucas held his face all wrong and didn’t quite look like him—like how identical twins could look like an imperfect photocopy of each other. He needed a little more confidence, a little more superiority, like he knew exactly what he was doing.

Wait, how did Henry do that thing with his eyes? Lucas tried opening them wide, and Henry’s manic gleam stared back. Almost—little more enthusiasm. He tried to think of something really exciting, and yep, there it was.

What about that frown, the glare with the eyebrows? He tilted his chin down and scowled. Oh wow, that was eerie.

“Lucas,” he growled, slipping into Henry’s accent. Not quite. A little more dragged out, bit more irritated, a bounce and dip in the syllables. “Lucaaaas.”

“Stop that. It’s unnerving.”

Lucas whirled around to see Henry poking his head out of the bedroom doorway a few feet down the hall. It was the same expression, only on Lucas’ face. Wow, Lucas never knew his eyebrows could do that.

Henry ducked back into the room and Lucas followed, only to be surprised inside the door by Henry brandishing the dark blue tie at him that he'd forgotten to put on.

“Do you know how to tie a full windsor?” Lucas didn’t have time to even say no before Henry grabbed Lucas’ collar, snapped it up, and slung the tie around his neck. “Never mind. If I can teach Abraham to tie a tie properly, I can teach you.”

Henry shuffled him in front of a mirror above a dresser and stood behind him, wrapping his arms around to fuss at the tie, and Lucas tried to picture a younger Henry teaching Abe the skill. Lucas wouldn’t put it past Henry to have learned how to tie a tie when he was five. Henry worked with quick, precise movements, and Lucas was riveted by the scene the mirror presented: a hapless Henry Morgan being fussed over by an intensely focused Lucas Wahl.

Lucas sucked in his tummy, straightened his back, and puffed out his chest. Accordingly, the Henry Morgan in the mirror came together like a marionette tugged up by its strings. Henry shot him a curious glance mid-way tucking the tie through the final pass of the knot, and the Lucas Wahl in the mirror met Lucas’ eyes.

For a beautiful second, he was back in his own body and looking in the mirror and seeing himself in return.

His reflection grimaced without his direction and continued tugging the tie knot tight.

The illusion collapsed. He was still trapped in his boss’ body, bound to sit here and be dressed like he was headed for Sunday school.

Henry twisted Lucas towards him to adjust his handiwork. As he tweaked at the tie, his knuckles brushed against Lucas’ chest. The cloth rubbing over the scar created a sensation that bordered on itchy.

“Henry?”

“Hm?” Henry tucked the end of the tie into the navy cardigan Lucas had on over the dress shirt and stood back to judge the outcome. When Henry didn’t come back for a second round, Lucas guessed he’d been given a reluctant pass.

Lucas scratched at the scar, but the itchiness was a phantom illusion—it was still numb and insensitive.

“The scar on your chest.”

“What about it?” Henry dug in the pocket of Lucas’ jeans. He was wearing yesterday’s clothes, but he looked put together. Did he get up early and wash the clothes? He must have, and possibly ironed them too. And he’d done magical things with Lucas’ hair, it was all perfectly parted and had…loft.

“What happened?”

“It’s a long story I’d prefer not to get into right now.” Henry dug in the pocket of Lucas’ jeans and came up with Henry’s pocket watch. He turned it over in his fingers a few times, and rubbed his thumb over the shiny engraved cover. With a deep sigh he fed the chain through a button loop on the cardigan. “I suppose you should have this.”

Once the chain was attached, he presented Lucas with the watch, handing it over with haste like he might change his mind. He went to the bathroom and came back with a bottle of hair product. He squeezed some of the cream onto his hand and rubbed it between his palms.

“Next time, put this in my hair right after you shower. Otherwise, there’s a great deal more curl than is manageable.”

Henry raked his fingers through Lucas’—okay yes, Henry’s—hair with brusque strokes. As Henry worked the goo in, Lucas relaxed and closed his eyes. It was like being at the hairdresser, the ones that charge you an extra fifteen bucks for a head rub. That was one of his vices, that really nice salon on 58th that brought you green tea and massaged your scalp. He fell asleep there once, and the ladies had let him sleep for a good fifteen minutes before they woke him up. Not because they minded him sleeping, they said they figured he needed it, but because they were afraid he was going to get a neck cramp.

Henry stopped before Lucas started drooling, giving a last few contemplative shuffles through the hair and looking at it from several angles. He hummed disapprovingly.

“I need a haircut.”

“It’s fine,” Lucas said.

“Let me get the scissors,” Henry said. “Just a little bit off over the ears.”

He disappeared into the bathroom again and drawers rattled. Lucas resigned himself to further preening, even though to his eye, the dejected Henry Morgan reflected in the mirror looked like the guy who came in to work every morning.

On the dresser below the mirror, there was a picture of a blonde woman—no, two pictures, of the same woman at different ages. Recognition hit, and Lucas leaned over and picked up the more recent one. Sylvia Blake, Abe’s mom. Lucas grabbed the other, a shot of her when she was younger, in black and white, comparing the two. A roiling, churning splash of tension hit him in the chest.

“I’ve got the barber’s kit,” Henry said, coming back into the room. “I can trim…”

Lucas looked up as Henry stopped talking. Lucas hefted one frame slightly, vulnerable in the wake of the odd flood of feeling.

“I, ah. Abe’s mom, right?”

“Yes.” Henry put the barber’s kit on the dresser and carefully took the pictures from his hands.

Lucas felt like a little kid in his great aunt’s house, meant to sit still and not touch anything, and everything he did touch would be wiped down for his grubby fingermarks. Henry replaced the frames on the dresser with unmistakable care, lingering over them before picking up the barber’s kit and pulling scissors from it.

Lucas’ irritation tempered when he remembered it’d only been a few weeks since they’d found Sylvia’s body. It seemed like so much had happened since then, but it hadn’t been long. Henry hadn’t taken it well, and hadn’t been the same since; a little more remote, a little quieter, like he had something on his mind.

The scissors snipped, and strands of hair tickled at Lucas’ neck.

“You know, if you want to talk about it, you can,” he said.

“Talk about what?” Henry’s accent was slipping into Lucas’ as he concentrated on snipping the longer curling hairs behind the ears.

“About Sylvia. You never really said much about her.”

Henry dusted away the strands, already finished with whatever minor insignificant cuts he thought were necessary. Lucas waited, but Henry was concentrating overly hard on putting the brush and scissors away. He zipped up the black bag and finally looked at Lucas.

“Thank you, Lucas. I’ll keep it in mind.” He scanned over Lucas and then snapped his fingers. “Right, shaving.”

“Henry—no, come on, man. It looks fine. I’ll say I’m growing a beard, finally gonna get that burly manly man look.”

“Certainly not, I won’t—“ He took a step towards Lucas, but Lucas took a step back and held up his hands, abruptly done with losing two bodies to Henry’s direction.

“Henry. Stop.”

Henry’s driven attitude faltered. He leaned against the dresser and crossed his arms tightly, ducking his chin.

“Yes, of course. Sorry, Lucas. Let’s get to the morgue and see what we can find out.” He snuck another look at Lucas. “With luck, we can get this sorted before my beard becomes sentient.”


	5. Chapter 5

Abe snapped a few photos of the baton before Henry took it back and pocketed it to bring it with them to the morgue. It might be integral to their investigation; how, he couldn’t guess, but there was a possibility that reconstructing the event might bring it to light.

Rush hour hadn’t yet started by the time Henry and Lucas hailed a cab, and they were to the precinct within minutes. Henry paid the fare for the cab and slid across the back seat to get out the open door after Lucas. He misjudged his height and clocked his head with a resounding thunk against the top of the car door frame.

“You okay, buddy?” the cab driver called back.

“Yes,” Henry held his ringing head and clamped down the urge to let fly every invective he knew. “Yes, fine. Thank you.”

He crawled out and shut the door behind him, striding past Lucas standing on the sidewalk waiting for him with his hands tucked in Henry’s wool overcoat. For once, Henry was grateful for Lucas’ body; longer legs gave him an ounce of extra speed, and he’d take every bit of it in order to get this over with faster.

“Hey, slow down!” Lucas scampered after him, nearly breaking a trot to catch up.

Henry punched the elevator button, and the door opened immediately. Henry stepped in, and Lucas dove in after.

“Henry, what—“

“You can’t call me that.” He pressed the button to take them down to the basement. “Within this building, I’m Lucas Wahl and you are Henry Morgan.”

“I don’t know about this. I don’t know if I can pretend to be you.”

The doors closed and Lucas leaned his back against the wall. With that untended beard and the slumping misery Lucas wore like a hair shirt, Henry was inclined to agree. However, he wouldn’t puncture what little confidence Lucas had dredged up. After the previous night’s distemper, Henry had resolved himself to be a little gentler.

“You’ll be fine. Besides, there’s no one in yet. We have another hour at least before others arrive.”

“But they’ll be in eventually. What if someone talks to me? What do I say? What do _you_ say? I mean, other than withering stares and changing the topic.”

“Lucas, you are the only person in the morgue who tries to make small talk with me. Everyone else adheres to business. You know all the procedures—answer precisely and offer no extraneous information. Eventually they go away.”

“So that’s Henry Morgan’s crash course on effective management?” Lucas straightened up as the elevator bell dinged to herald their arrival. “Maybe I should go up for a promotion. Doesn’t sound so hard.”

They walked into the hall, and Henry glanced around for listening ears before he lowered his voice and leaned closer to Lucas. He was almost getting used to talking to his own head.

“We’ll inspect the scene, find what we need, and then get out before anyone else arrives. With luck, we won’t need to talk to anyone about anything.”

Henry swiped Lucas’ ID card in the reader, unlocked the main doors to the morgue and flipped the lights on. They’d made it first, and had nearly an hour to work.

The evidence bags containing Geri Glasser’s possessions and clothing were still on the stainless steel rolling table, and Henry put the bagged baton down along with the items. Nothing leapt out as unusual, other than the oddly shaped piece of wood which had been the last thing they’d both touched.

“Really? No small talk?”

“What?”

Lucas had discarded the overcoat on a nearby chair and stood facing him, weight off-balance with one hip cocked and a slouch to his shoulders. Henry resisted the urge to tell him to stand up straight and returned his attention to the table.

“No one else chats with you?” Lucas persisted. “At all?”

“No. Why?” He pulled Glasser’s clothing from a bag and flattened out her jeans, digging into the pockets in case they’d missed anything. Lucas had done his usual thorough job in his initial pass, however, and nothing remained but pocket lint.

“I dunno, that’s kind of… sad. I guess I never noticed.”

The idea of inviting more inspection on his life with casual acquaintances set Henry’s teeth on edge. Lucas, Detective Hanson and Lieutenant Reece, all his colleagues were sitting on the blurry edge between his professional and personal life as it was. And Jo…

Henry was tied down to this life of his ever more with each passing day. He was constantly at war with the desire to embrace it and the paranoid knowledge that he had to be cautious.

“I prefer it that way. I enjoy the peace and quiet.” Lucas either did not notice the pointed hint, or chose to ignore it.

“I’ll chalk it up to my natural charm that I’ve worked my way past your prickly exterior.” Lucas gave a glance down, over his borrowed body. “Literally.”

As Henry performed a last search of Glasser’s boots, Lucas squirmed and tugged at his suit pants, jiggling one leg and pulling at the fabric in the back with a scowl. Henry narrowed his eyes.

“What are you doing?”

“Your pants are too tight.” Lucas plucked at the seat of the pants again, wiggling in a very undignified fashion. “How the hell do you wear these things every day?”

“They are not too tight, they are a tailored European cut,” Henry said through grit teeth.

“Yeah, well, they're gonna European cut some circulation pretty soon, if you know what I mean,“ Lucas grunted, giving the crotch a firm tug down and bending a leg.

“Lucas!” Henry dropped Glasser’s boots as his patience frayed. “Lucas,” he repeated more calmly. “Unlike you obviously do, I dress to the left. My suits are tailored accordingly.”

“Oh.” Lucas looked down. “Oh, yeah. That would make sense.” Lucas turned around and shoved his hand down the front of his pants.

Henry covered his face with his hands. Dear god, this tested even his very liberal comfort levels.

Lucas turned back around, still tugging at the crotch of the pants to settle himself.

“Stop pulling at them!” Henry snapped. “You’ll stretch the seams.”

Lucas stopped, but he shifted uncomfortably with a scowl and folded his arms, making an obvious show of surly displeasure that would have given Abe a run for his money in his teen years. He had no idea how Lucas managed to twist Henry’s features into such a childish pout.

Henry gesturing to the items on the table between them, determined to move forward.

“There is nothing at all here that is even remotely suspicious. Let’s swab everything for hallucinogens and unusual pathogens.”

Lucas picked up the wooden baton and pulled it from the evidence bag.

“It has to be this. Unexplained thingy, unexplained results.”

“Even if a piece of wood could cause this—this displacement, then what triggers it? How do we reverse it? Is it some reaction between it and the environment? Body chemistry?”

“Let’s try standing where we were before.”

“We tried this, Lucas.”

“We weren’t thinking straight at the time, we might not have gotten it exactly right.”

It was as good an idea as any. Henry nodded and slid the table into position, then shuffled himself to his best approximate memory of where Lucas had stood. Lucas stood opposite him and gripped the baton with his right hand.

Lucas extended his hand out towards Henry, but stopped short before it reached Henry and shrugged his shoulders with an exasperated groan.

“Short arms, fine, I’ll deal. But Henry, this is like wearing a straight jacket!”

“Well it’s not a jogging suit!” Henry said sharply.  “We can’t all worship at the fine menswear altar of ‘Fruit of the Loom.’” Henry tugged at Lucas’ casual cotton t-shirt. “And—and Levy’s,” he finished, gesturing to the ill-fitting loose jeans he’d washed and pressed early this morning.

“Levi’s.” Lucas threw his hands up in the air and appealing to the ceiling with a groan.  “They’re _Levi’s_.  Oh my god, I can’t—I just can’t.”

“Then don’t!”

He and Lucas glared at each other in silent stand-off, Henry staring down his own irritated face in a mirror. But it wasn’t him—those stress lines belonged to Lucas, his assistant and junior, a young man pushed to the limit of what he was able to bear.

Henry took a few calming breaths and let the tension bleed out of him.

“Let’s concentrate on the matter at hand,” he said.

Lucas dropped his gaze to the floor, and then with a deep sigh he shook himself out and nodded.

“Yeah. Sorry.” He extended the baton to Henry, and shrugged his arm a little to reseat the jacket shoulder without comment. “So you handed it to me like this.”

“And you took it like this.” Henry grabbed the other presented end with his right hand.

Nothing. The wood was cool and unresponsive, no tingle or shock. They waited for ten seconds in silence before Henry dropped his hand.

“It’s not doing anything.”

“Maybe it’s about whose _mind_ is where they were, and not the body. Let’s switch spots.” Lucas came around the table and shoved Henry over into his place, the spot where he’d stood the night before. “This time you hand me the baton.”

They were grasping at straws and they both knew it. They tried it every which way—with the words they’d said as best they could remember, taking turns saying them back and forth, in both their natural and feigned accents. Nothing worked.

They eventually grew tired of throwing themselves against the brick wall of failure and followed Henry’s initial suggestion of swabbing everything for samples. Henry didn’t think they would find anything, but he was a believer in leaving no stone unturned, no avenue untaken, no bush unbeaten. In two hundred years, he’d pursued every lead regarding his immortality without exception.

Not an ideal comparison; every lead had been a dead end. He still had no idea what had caused his immortality, how it worked, or how to end it.

_But this could be how. I may be mortal._

Henry snuck a look over at Lucas. He was busy labelling test tubes full of swabs from all the evidence. The scene would look perfectly normal to anyone on the outside; Lucas and Henry bent over their work, deep in concentration, each themselves. No one would ever know they’d switched bodies.

What would Lucas think of immortality? Would he embrace it as a gift, as Henry had never learned to do?

Would he be content taking over Henry’s burden?

Lucas looked up and caught Henry watching him.

“What’s up?” Lucas asked.

“Nothing. Sorry.” He busied himself once again.

Just then, the front double doors to the morgue opened to the buzz of conversation. The first staff were arriving for the day. The hour had come and gone in a flash, and they weren’t done yet.

Lucas made a high-pitched panicked noise, marker in one hand and sample tube in the other, and shot Henry a desperate _‘what do we do?’_ look.

“How about we keep working in your office, Dr. Morgan?” Henry said, quickly piling everything onto the wheeled cart.

“My office— Oh! _My_ office. Yes. Er, excellent suggestion, Mr. Wahl. Lucas. My office.”

The accent was right, but other than that, everything that came out was a dismal failure. By the time he did get his body back from Lucas, he’d be too embarrassed to hold his head up in public. Before anyone could filter farther into the lab and interact with them, they headed for Henry’s office with the laden cart, and no one paid them any mind.

“What if they come in here?” Lucas paced anxiously around the edges of Henry’s office, sneaking glances out the glass wall at the morgue staff busily setting to their work stations. “What if they want to talk?”

“With you behaving like that, no one is coming within a hundred yards of this office,” Henry said, gesturing to Lucas’ frantic pacing. “You make me look like I’m about to have a fit. Lucas, please, relax. We’ll walk straight out of here as soon as we’re done and no one will be the wiser.”

Henry’s reassurance seemed to mollify Lucas somewhat, and he plucked up the wooden baton as passed the cart and tossed it in the air with a spin. He caught it by the other end, then did it again as he finally perched on the edge of Henry’s desk.

“Someone obviously made this, it’s carved and sanded and everything, but why? What’s the point of something that sticks you in someone else’s body?”

“Assuming firstly that it is the cause of our problem, and secondly that you could purposefully make an item that can have this effect on people…” Henry took a seat in one of the guest chairs facing his desk and tapped his fingers on the arms, mulling it over. “A weapon, perhaps?”

“Pretty crappy weapon, if you ask me,” Lucas said.

“Or an effective one. What better way to end a conflict than to put yourself, quite literally, into another person’s shoes? Could you really continue to fight someone if you are fighting yourself?”

Lucas shrugged.

“Yeah, I suppose. So is that what we’re supposed to do to switch back? Some peaceful resolution to… to what? We’re not fighting.” He looked up with a frown. “We’re not fighting, are we?”

“No.” He tipped his head to Lucas in a respectful nod, an apology for his earlier frustration. “I have no quarrel with you, Lucas. But I must remind you, this is all rampant speculation.”

“Then what do we do?”

Henry looked to the cart covered in sample tubes. Further testing for unknown agents was very unlikely to bear fruit. Though it seemed improbable, he had to concede that the baton was their best lead.

“I suppose we determine where Glasser got this item. Abe is working on tracking down any information on something similar. We can pursue where this one came from.”

“Yeah, but Jo said they didn’t have a home address for Glasser.”

Jo… The gun. Oh, no. Henry leapt to his feet and overbalanced as Lucas’ lean height sent him shooting up farther and faster than expected.

Sure enough, the gun Jo had brought the night before was on his desk, awaiting his examination. She was going to come back this morning, and knowing Jo she was going to be prompt about it.

“Damn. We need to get this fingerprinted before she comes back to take it for ballistics testing. I’ll have one of the lab techs take the results upstairs to her so I—you—don’t have to speak with her.”

“Too late,” Lucas said with a gulp. He stood, baton clenched in his fist like a bludgeon.

Henry twisted around to follow Lucas’ gaze. Jo was coming in the far end of the morgue through the main doors and heading for his office.

“Shit,” Lucas said.

“Don’t say that, I don’t swear.” Henry shooed Lucas with urgent sweeping gestures. “Get behind my desk!”

“You sure do, you just do it quietly under your breath.”

The colourful cursing from his time in the military in World War II had stuck as a wonderfully cathartic release, but after the war he’d kept them as a private vice. Not private enough, apparently.

“Move!” Henry hissed. Jo was nearing fast.

Lucas scrambled into Henry’s chair, scooting in under the desk and getting himself settled.

“Say as little as possible, and for god’s sake Lucas, no joking around.” Henry pointed a warning finger at Lucas.

“Quick, what’s the deal with you two?” Lucas asked. “Is she my girlfriend? Ex-girlfriend? Friends with benefits?”

“Lucas!” Henry said, momentarily stymied. “That is—that is none of your concern.”

“Well it’s about to be! If she wants to talk to me, I’ve gotta know _something_.”

If Jo had any opportunity to speak to Lucas alone, he was sunk. Forget their relationship, inevitably something touching on his immortality would come up.

“She’s…” Oh, what the hell was Jo to him anyway? “We’re—”

Jo knocked on the door and waved a little at them, and Henry swallowed down his non-answer. Lucas straightened up and his nervousness stretched Henry’s face into a terrified frozen smile.

When neither of them moved to make a gesture towards her, Jo pushed the door open and poked her head in.

“Am I interrupting anything?”

“No,” they both said at once.

Jo hovered in the doorway. Henry cleared his throat softly, and Lucas sat up straight with a little ‘ _oh.’_

“Yes! Come in,” Lucas said. “To my office,” he added, with unnecessary emphasis on the word ‘my.’ Henry tried not to let his cringe show.

“Thanks.”

Jo settled into the other guest chair to face Lucas, a manila folder on her lap. Henry sat and crossed his legs, making a show of getting comfortable and listening attentively, and she gave him a slight frown. She obviously wanted ‘Lucas’ to leave, but wasn’t going to go as far as to kick him out.

“You feeling better, Lucas?” she asked Henry.

“Much,” Henry said. “But it got in the way of fingerprinting the gun. Sorry about that. We’ll get to it right away.” Lucas’ accent came out easily now that Henry knew how to flip the switch in his mind and sink into the muscle memory.

“Okay, thanks,” she said, looking back to Lucas, who was stiff as a board behind the desk with his mouth clamped shut. “Lazaro Molina—the other missing flight school teacher and boyfriend of our victim—I sent a car over to pick him up yesterday, but he wasn’t home. Neighbours haven’t seen him since the afternoon of the day of the murder, and he didn’t show up for work again today.”

“Hm,” Lucas said.

Henry subtly shook his head when Lucas opened his mouth to say more. Lucas subsided and instead stroked his chin thoughtfully as he leaned back in his chair. Henry closed his eyes, pained, and returned his attention to Jo.

She flipped open the folder on her lap. On the front page, the bruised mugshot of Lazaro Molina scowled up at them, dark thick hair rebelling from a carefully slicked part, white shirt collar spattered with something that might have been blood. He was fresh from some misdeed, whenever this was taken.

“Molina’s got a rap sheet,” Jo continued. “Started out in the Air Force, then was a pilot with United Airlines, but looks like a few years ago he lost that job. Unemployed for a stretch before he started up at the flight school. Misdemeanours, mostly; drunk and disorderly, vandalism, but he’s got recent minor assault charges—he liked to get in bar fights. Anyway, I got a warrant for his place and I’m going to go check it out. Glasser might have been living with him.”

“From what Ms. Figg, their employer, said about their relationship, it sounded rather turbulent to be living together,” Henry mused. Jo gave him a blank look at the unexpected intrusion into the conversation, and Henry abruptly remembered himself and his mismatched appearance—and that Lucas had not been at the flight school with them. “Which is what Henry said. When he filled me in yesterday.”

“Yes. Lucas and I share all the evidence. He’s helped me a number of times with key insights that have solved many cases.” Lucas put in. He shut his mouth quickly when Henry narrowed his eyes in warning.

Thankfully, Jo was used to the eccentricities of life in the morgue, and shrugged it off.

“Maybe, but there’s only one way to find out.” She waved the envelope in her hand containing the warrant paperwork. “Want to come along?”

“Yes,” Lucas said, as at the same time Henry said, “No.”

Jo looked between them with an odd, puzzled smile.

“Lucas, if you don’t want to come that’s fine. I…I kind of figured you wouldn’t.”

Henry’s heart leapt into his throat and he sat up straight in his chair. Jo and Lucas alone together could not happen. By the looks of Lucas, it was his worst nightmare as well. Good. However, before he could think of what to say, Lucas leapt up from the chair, fast enough that it scooted back on its wheels and knocked into the wall behind.

“Lucas, I insist you come.” Lucas planted his hands on the desk and leaned forward with all the subtlety of a filibustering politician. “Mr. Wahl, as part of your continued training for crime scene investigative work, you will accompany us.”

Jo started to stutter out a confused objection, but Henry stood and cut her off.

“Whatever you say, Dr. Morgan,” he said formally.

“Great!” Lucas beamed at Jo, whose mouth was hanging open.

“Can we meet you in a few minutes?” Henry asked.

“Uh.” She stared up at both of them, looking back and forth. “Well. Okay. Sure, I’ll head back upstairs. Meet me at my desk when you’re ready.”

After an awkward silence, she got up and left the office, glancing back over her shoulder before heading out of the morgue. Henry and Lucas both stood frozen until she was out the far doors towards the hall.

Once she was out of sight, Henry rounded on Lucas.

“Lucas, what on earth are you trying to do?” he demanded.

“You said we needed to figure out where Glasser got this thing!” Lucas picked up the baton he’d stashed under a stack of papers on Henry’s desk. “So finding out where she lives is step one, right? Get a look at her stuff, figure out where she’s been?”

Henry sputtered wordlessly. It was reasonable—perfectly reasonable, a sound plan and very possibly necessary one, even—but that did not make it any less terrifying. They needed to be hidden away from anyone who knew them, not strapped to their sides, bound to be exposed at any moment.

“We can’t spend prolonged periods of time with anyone! They’ll know in an instant!”

“Look, Henry, I hate to say it, but you were right. No one is going to believe us even if we did tell them. And who leaps to those kind of out-there conclusions anyway?” He put a hand flat to his chest. “Other than me. I mean, if this was you and someone else, I would totally know. Nothing gets past me.”

Henry could feel the argument slipping out of his favour, and he put a hand to his face to wipe away the cold sweat on his brow. Lucas was a unpleasantly sweaty person. Once again, however, he had a point. Henry frequently delighted in flaunting bits of truth about his immortality in conversation, mostly as a safety valve for his own stress, to keep himself amused with his own privately held in-jokes. Even under the supposedly keen, observant gaze of Lucas Wahl, it was harmless. No one made assumptions.

Until they did. Then people came knocking at your door demanding answers, and the reckoning was steep.

“Fine,” Henry grunted. “But after this, we come back and finish Glasser’s autopsy, and any further investigation we do on our own time, well away from anyone who knows us.”

“Deal,” Lucas said. He went to the coat rack by the door and grabbed up the red silk scarf hanging there. He presented it to Henry expectantly. “Now, teach me how to do that scarf knot you do. You know, the flippy one with the bit in the front.”

Henry grabbed the ends of the scarf and prayed he wouldn’t regret this.


	6. Chapter 6

The light shifted as Jo’s car took a right turn, and sun glinted off the dark brown strands of Henry’s hair, lighting up auburn tones and a hint of scalp. Was his hair thinner at the crown? How had he never noticed that? Surely somewhere in a few centuries he should have noticed something like that.

Then again, he’d never spent half an hour in the rear seat of a car staring at the back of his own head.

Henry kept his mouth shut through the drive, which proved to be a strenuous exercise in self control. Lucas made stilted conversation with Jo, but to his credit he managed to not embarrass himself—and, by extension, Henry—with anything too out of character.

The hesitance wasn’t Lucas’ alone, however. At first Henry thought Jo was suspicious of them, but when he caught her sneaking glances in the rearview mirror at him, he suspected that Jo wished she could speak to ‘Henry’ alone without being overheard, and ‘Lucas’ in the back seat was thwarting her desires.

Well, good. He would not let Jo be alone with Lucas so long as they were stuck like this. She’d suffered through the vagaries of his life enough, and he would not dump this temporary insanity on her. For another thing, he intended to keep Lucas completely ignorant of his immortality. He saw no reason to air his secrets any more than necessary.

It was all temporary, and he’d solve it. Soon.

Somehow.

Lazaro Molina lived in Jersey City, on the third floor of a four story walk-up that hadn’t seen a hint of upkeep in at least thirty years. The dingy stairwell smelled of stale cigarettes and mildew, and the halls retained a lingering odour of dogs and dust.

A pair of uniformed New Jersey police officers met them at the door to Molina’s apartment. They’d obtained a key from the landlord already, and set aside jurisdictional politics to exhibit a merciful willingness to work with the precinct’s team. Hanson had beaten them there by a few minutes and was already inside having a look around.

“Hey, Jo—and entourage,” Hanson said, glancing over at Henry and Lucas, who followed her over the threshold.

“This place is a dump,” Lucas said, looking around, nose wrinkled. Said in Henry’s accent, it sounded like a dramatic reading from a pulp detective novel.

Hanson looked up from the bundle of mail he was sheafing through.

“Yeah, pretty much.” Hanson frowned slightly at Lucas’ un-Henry-like statement, and Henry covered his dismay by turning away to look down the hall leading off to the left towards the bathroom of the one-bedroom apartment. Hanson dumped the mail back onto the cluttered kitchen table. “I got overdue bills, junk mail, all addressed to Molina. If Glasser lived here, she wasn’t getting her mail sent here. Haven’t had a chance to look around the rest of the place.”

Lucas’ observation, however stated, was accurate. Molina obviously thought trash cans were for decorative purposes only; old take-out containers, pop cans, empty liquor bottles, a full ashtray, and various piles of litter were strewn across every available table and shelving surface in the combined living room and dining room area. The dingy cream carpet hadn’t seen a vacuum cleaner in some time, and the windows filtered light through grubby panes of glass.

Jo wandered into the kitchen and Lucas followed her. He appeared at a loss for what to do, and eventually decided on looking in the fridge while Jo scanned the overfull countertops. She stopped to lift her foot carefully, and a distinct ripping sound indicated a sticky patch of something spilled and not wiped up.

“Not exactly housekeeper of the year, is he?” Jo said.

“Or cook. I think he’s going to have scurvy when we find him,” Lucas said, indicating a fridge full of beer, condiments, and suspiciously old take-out containers.

Henry wandered over to the low-slung couch in the middle of the living room. Magazines and assorted detritus—discarded sweaters, bills, a battered old laptop and miscellaneous charging cords—covered most of the cushions, save a wedge of space wide enough for a single person to sit.

“Only one spot cleared on the couch,” Henry said. He gestured to the old TV on the wall the couch faced. “There’s no other seating available for viewing the television, which appears to be Molina’s primary source of entertainment when home. I believe he lived alone.”

Jo turned to Lucas standing by her in the small kitchen, holding the fridge door open. She was close enough to nudge him with an elbow.

“You two have been spending way too much time together,” she joked. “You better watch out, Henry. You’re gonna get replaced.”

The joke was directed at both of them, but her focus was on Lucas. The fond, almost intimate quality of her smile and slightly lowered voice meant for him, and not Henry.

No, she _was_ saying it to Henry—who she _thought_ was Henry.

Despite having no entitlement or reason to expect it, there was a dry-mouthed disappointment that came with Jo’s attention being directed towards someone else, even someone who looked like him, _was_ him in her eyes. He’d barely begun to regain her trust and good will, and he was pathetically eager to engage in those moments of relaxed friendship he’d missed so much in these past whirlwind weeks.

Jo said something quiet that Henry didn’t catch and Lucas feigned a laugh—very well-feigned indeed. Lucas looked like he was enjoying Jo’s conversation.

“Now you know what I put up with at every crime scene,” Hanson said with an eye-roll as he walked by Henry. “They never stop.”

Hanson continued past him to rifle through the various items left atop the bookcase by the television, leaving Henry speechless.

“I’m going to get the New Jersey guys to grab some fingerprints around here,” Jo said them. “See if they can pull any of Glasser’s prints.”

She walked out into the hall, and Lucas glanced at Henry. Whatever he saw, his eyes widened and he shrugged with a mouthed, _“What?”_

With Jo in the hall and Hanson present, there was no harm in Henry’s being elsewhere, and he had a very great desire to be elsewhere right now. He turned away from Lucas without a response and went down the hall towards the bathroom and single bedroom.

Even in Molina’s bathroom and bedroom, signs of a life poorly lived were everywhere. He poked his head into the bathroom first, averting his eyes from the mirror above the sink that reflected Lucas’ curious, attentive expression back at him. He snapped on gloves before delicately opening the grimy medicine cabinet above the sink. Inside, an extra toothbrush and a stick of women’s deodorant indicated that Glasser or another woman might have spent time here. He uncapped the deodorant; dry and flaky, unused for a while.

Henry clipped his shoulder on the door frame as he exited the bathroom headed for the bedroom. Lucas’ damned body seemed to have a clumsy life of its own and would be covered in bruises by the time Lucas got it back. In the meantime, Henry was the one stuck with an aching shoulder, and he rubbed at it, more cautious when passing through the bedroom doorway.

The bedding was a snarled mess, bottom sheet twisted awry and snapped off one corner to expose the naked mattress. The top sheet and blankets had been kicked down to the bottom and trailed off the bed.

A bottle of cheap rye lay half-under the bed near the nightstand, which Henry picked up gingerly by the top. No dust or grit; it hadn’t been lying around long, but it was nearly empty. A heavy indicator that if Molina struggled with alcoholism, he was well under the thumb of his demons at the moment.

A flash of colour at eye-level; Henry leaned across the bed and pulled it free from beneath the pillow. He held up a pair of womens red underwear.

“Either Molina’s got interesting tastes in fashion, or he had a lady friend here recently. Think you can get DNA off that, see if it belonged to Glasser?”

Henry turned to find Hanson in the doorway to the bedroom. He remembered in time and adopted Lucas’ demeanour for his answer.

“Yeah, can do.”

“Great. Damn, this guy’s a mess, isn’t he?” Hanson came into the bedroom and started poking around at the scattered items on top of a dresser that were buried by mounds of discarded clothing, both worn and unworn.

In the other room, the murmur of voices rose and fell, and then there was silence.

Henry stood bolt upright and whirled around. Hanson was in here… Which meant Jo and Lucas were out there. Alone. _Together_.

“Hey, Lucas, you doing okay?” Hanson asked.

“Fine!” Henry dashed to the door, and Hanson shied back as Henry fled past him.

He burst into the living room as Jo was folding her arms and leaning close to Lucas to say something. Both Lucas and Jo jumped in surprise at his pell-mell entry, and Jo took a step back from Lucas. Henry misjudged his trajectory and knocked into a small side table. It tottered and spilled a pile of airplane flight manual study guides onto the floor.

“Oh, damn it!” The curse came out in his own accent. Both Jo and Lucas stared at him. Groping for an excuse for his behaviour, he spotted the briefs in his hand. He raised them aloft and shook them like a flag as he slipped back into Lucas’ accent. “I found underwear!”

Jo dropped her hands to her sides and shot Lucas a look from the corner of her eye which held an irritated gleam that said, _“why did you make me bring him?_ ”

“That’s great, Lucas. People usually have underwear,” Jo said.

“What? Oh, no—no, women’s underwear.” He unfolded them and held them up to demonstrate his point. “The right size to belong to Ms. Glasser. We can run them for DNA, see if she was here the night of her murder.”

“They could have been from earlier,” Jo pointed out, but she pulled an evidence bag from her pocket and opened it, shaking it out and coming over to hold it out for Henry to deposit the underwear into. She wrinkled her nose as she looked into the bag. “Unless you can tell when they were last worn?”

“No,” Henry admitted. “Unfortunately not. But—”

“But Glasser wasn’t wearing any underwear when I—you— _we_ catalogued her things!” Lucas interrupted excitedly.

“Huh.” Jo sealed the bag up and handed it to Henry with a grudging nod. “Good job, Lucas.” She glanced back at Lucas once more before pressing her lips together in vague irritation, apparently giving up on the idea of cornering ‘Henry’ for a private talk. “I’ll be right back, I’m going to check in with Hanson.” Jo went down the hall, and Lucas hurried over to Henry.

“Henry, I’m real excited about evidence and everything, but maybe tone it down a little?” Lucas whispered urgently. “Be cool, okay? I don’t need people thinking I’m crazy.”

“I could say the same to you,” Henry shot back. “You could afford to be a little more circumspect in your dealings.”

“‘Circumspect?’” Lucas repeated. “What does that even mean?”

“With Detective Martinez. You were very… familiar.”

“What? She’s the one who wanted to talk to me—you, I mean. I dunno what about, but it seemed important.” Lucas shifted on his feet to look down the hall. “Can I get a hint what it’s about before she comes back?”

“It’s nothing. If she asks again, tell her you prefer to talk about it later.”

Henry stooped to pick up the flight manual study guides from the floor to close the conversation. Intermingled with the books were photocopied pages, quizzes with questions likely pulled from the books. The names of students at the top were accompanied by a scrawled hand and notes that Henry took to be Molina’s writing. He’d been marking student test scores from the previous week—an indication that Molina had intended to return to work as normal this week.

Lucas crouched next to him and helped him tidy up the stack.

“The, uh, the coordination thing gets easier. It took me a few years after I had that last growth spurt to get used to it.” Lucas grimaced and looked away from Henry. “Not that we’re going to be like this for years, I mean…” He trailed off with a frown and ducked his head lower. “Hey, what’s this?”

Lucas pulled the waste basket out from under the end table Henry was crouched next to, disrupting the perfect snow-drift of wrappers, chip bags, and crumpled paper around it. Off the top of the pile in the basket Lucas plucked up two halves of a ripped photograph. Lucas flipped them and showed them to Henry.

The damaged photo was of Lazaro Molina and Geri Glasser, the two of them with their arms around each other as they laughed and smiled for the camera. They were at Coney Island on the boardwalk at sunset—a romantic location, both of them appearing quite cosy and close. The tear in the paper ripped the couple asunder, leaving each individual exiled to one half. The photo had been crumpled and balled up in anger before being tossed.

Molina was short, shorter than Glasser, with a round, happy face. A date stamp in the corner marked the photo as taken three years ago, and though he had a weathered air to him, he did not show the signs of alcoholism or neglect present in his mug shot. Whatever had transpired in the three years since this moment, it had deeply affected Molina.

“When they were together, it seems both Lazaro and Geri were happy,” Henry said.

“That obviously changed,” Lucas said.

“People do change over time,” Henry said. The two happy smiles beaming out from the crinkled photo paper were all that remained of this happy past. “But whatever caused this rage, it was recent. This on right on top of the trash.”

Lucas took one of the halves of the photo—the side with Geri Glasser. He looked at it intently.

“Do you think—do you think maybe they… you know, switched? If she had that wooden stick, and she was with him…”

“I don’t know,” Henry said. “But if they did, then Mr. Molina may be able tell us more about what happened to Ms. Glasser before her murder.”

“Unless he _is_ Geri Glasser,” Lucas pointed out.

Before Henry could respond to that horrifying idea, Jo and Hanson came into the living room.

“Okay, I’ll get Jersey police to keep an eye on the place, see if he turns up. We’ll canvas the neighbours before we go,” Jo was saying to Hanson. She spotted Henry and Lucas squatting on the floor. “Whatcha got?”

“This was on top of the garbage can,” Lucas said. Lucas presented Jo with his half of the photo, and Henry with his. She and Hanson looked them over.

“There’s your motive,” Hanson said. “Things go south with Glasser, Molina gets plastered, they fight, she gets shot in the scuffle.”

“But how the hell did they end up in Midtown? And why?” Jo asked.

“When we find him, we can ask him.”

Henry exchanged a look with Lucas. When they did find Molina, they would have to speak to him and see if he knew anything about their switch.

And, whether or not he’d been in the very same situation—or still was.

 

***

 

All Lucas wanted was to go home and hide. Four hours of pretending to be Henry Morgan was all he could handle. However, they couldn’t put off Geri Glasser’s full autopsy any longer without it looking suspicious, so Henry and Lucas went back to the morgue when Jo dropped them at the precinct.

Lucas might be burnt out, but Henry was irritatingly energetic and determined to keep on the trail. The morgue was fully staffed and in the mid-day swing of things, but Henry blithely walked in like he owned the place, chest puffed out and giving Lucas’ walk a swagger of confidence that Lucas never possessed on his own. Lucas trailed behind doing his best imitation, but it was a pale comparison to Henry’s natural presence.

It figured that Henry would be better at being Lucas than Lucas himself was. This entire switching bodies thing was so _depressing_.

Lucas pulled prints off the gun, DNA from the underwear found at Molina’s apartment, and got the various searches and tests running while Henry worked studiously on Glasser’s corpse. As Henry measured bruises and lacerations with care, hemming and hawing with very Henry-like noises, Lucas dissected Glasser’s brain to examine tissue samples. Though not a standard part of the autopsy procedure for a death like this, he looked for abnormalities that might hint at unusual activity—though how to tell that someone else had been living in a brain other than the original resident, Lucas couldn’t begin to guess.

For the third time in ten minutes, Lucas bent over the microscope and drilled the eye piece into his eye socket when Henry’s shorter height made him misjudge the distance. He straightened with a frustrated growl and rubbed at his watering eye. At this rate it was going to blind him if he wasn’t more careful.

“Dr. Morgan?”

Lucas was going to call it a win that he managed not to stomp his feet and kick the cabinet beneath the work station.

“Excuse me—Dr. Morgan?”

On the second call it registered that _he_ was Dr. Morgan. Lucas twirled around, holding his eye, to find Carl, one of the EMS guys, nearby with a clipboard. Carl, a broad, stout guy who wore what was left of his greying hair pulled back in a ponytail, jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the stretcher with a body bag on it.

“Can you sign for this one? Male, 83, natural causes.”

Lucas shook himself to attention, slow on the uptake of trying to be Henry again. Carl thrust the clipboard and pen into his hands, impatient to make his delivery and move on. In his fatigue, Lucas put pen to paper, and without thinking dashed off the loops and swirls of Henry’s signature, as natural as breathing.

Lucas blinked down at the clipboard, the pen loose in his right hand.

That was so eerie. If he let his mind wander too much, how far would these little automatic responses go? Would Henry’s body start to operate on autopilot, leaving Lucas a silent passenger riding along without any say?

Was he going to lose his mind as well as his body?

“Done?” Carl prompted.

“Uh, yes,” Lucas said. He handed the pen and clipboard back, uneasy at the lapse. “Chelsea’s in the fridge room, she can get him into storage.”

Normally Carl threw a joke at him—they had this ongoing thing where Carl came in with the worst joke he could find, usually dirty and always groan-worthy. Carl was teetering on the brink of retirement; the staff was having a lunch party for him next week to celebrate, and Lucas had been promising him that he was going to come up with the best joke, but that he’d have to wait for it, all while Carl tried to cajole it out of him.

But nope, Carl nodded and left without another word. No small talk.

Henry was right; nobody chatted with him.

Here in the morgue, being Henry was easy. People were polite, professional, and to the point. Work was discussed, then it was done. No ‘how you doing,’ no ‘how’s your day,’ no ‘what have you got going on this weekend?’ Nothing.

It was so lonely.

Lucas grabbed a stool to sit down, leaning an elbow on the desk and putting his head in his hand.

His feet hurt from Henry’s dress shoes, Henry’s underwear existed in a state of constant wedgie that was driving Lucas insane, and he was exhausted from holding himself upright like he had a stick up his butt so Henry’s suit jacket didn’t pull across his back and arms like a yoke.

And with his current droop, the jacket was doing exactly that. Lucas groaned and straightened up. Over in the corner, the other thing drooping was the bouquet of pink hydrangeas. They’d lost a few of the flat blooms making up the globes, and they lay scattered around the beakers.

Sabrina.

Oh man, he’d been looking forward to that date so much. Yesterday, Saturday had seemed ages away, but now it was uncomfortably close. She was the first girl he’d clicked with in a long time, and he wasn’t willing to let the chance slip him by.

He’d been the tag-along to a friend-of-a-friend’s house party, and so had she, and they’d ended up standing in the corner next to the food table talking until two in the morning. She was a horror buff, had even done some acting when she was in college before she became an ‘MTA office drone,’ as she put it, and they geeked out over every single zombie movie ever made. That, and the adorable little bounce she did every time she got excited, the little nose-wrinkle that scrunched up her face into a cute little ball… Yeah. She was great.

Only the fact that he’d been hitting the garlic hummus dip hard had kept him back from going in for a kiss at the end of the night. She’d been dragged away by friends before he could find some gum, but she’d offered him her number and he’d promised to call. Which he did, the next morning, because he was never very good at playing the two-day waiting game. Or was it three days? Hell, he was lucky if he could wait three hours. Either way, she’d been into it, and he’d been so excited.

Then he’d messed it up. Twice. Sabrina was pretty sure he was jerking her around, but he’d been granted a third and final chance. Showing up for a date looking like a different person that was going to be harder to explain than writing the day wrong in his planner, and a hell of a lot harder to believe than his pipes bursting and his phone drowning, so they’d better have this sorted out by Saturday. If he blew this, he was never going to see her again.

It had been almost two years since he’d broken up with Nina, and there’d been a few dates, but mostly it was nights alone with a bag of chips and Netflix. Lucas was the kind of guy who had a crush on everyone he met, but meeting someone who liked him back _and_ had things in common with him was like finding the Holy Grail.

Sure, life would go on if it didn’t work out—but he needed this to happen. It didn’t have to be the romance of the ages, but _some_ hope, _some_ indication that he wasn’t going to die alone in front of his TV, that he could find something good with _someone_ …

He was going to have to have faith that Henry would figure this out.

Lucas rolled his aching shoulders and tugged at the tight vest that rode up. Yep, Henry solved the hard puzzles, and somehow did it while dressed like he was wearing Victorian corsetry.

Lucas swivelled around from his work station towards Henry, a few feet away from him at the autopsy slab. He was so engrossed in his work that he hadn’t noticed the exchange with Carl. Lucas slipped off the stool and came to the other side of the slab from Henry.

“Find anything?” Lucas asked.

Henry straightened up and leaned back with a grimace, stretching his lower back after stooping for so long.

“Yes—Glasser was sexually active within 12 hours prior to her death. I’ve started the DNA sequencing for the semen.”

“If those were her panties in Molina’s bed, it was probably him,” Lucas said.

“Mm,” Henry agreed. He picked up a stainless steel pan and showed it to Lucas. A single blood-covered metal slug rolled in the bottom. “I managed to pull the bullet that killed her. From the gauge I’d say it’s a match for the gun, but we’ll know more when ballistics comes back. You?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary in the brain tissue samples.” He reached back and picked up the bagged gun and hefted it. “I did get two sets of prints on the gun. One is definitely Glasser, but the other I only got a tiny partial. Running it through the system now.”

Henry’s accent tripped off Lucas’ tongue effortlessly, almost easier than his own. When Lucas got home tonight, he was going crawl into his softest flannel pjs, eat chips, throw Star Wars on the TV and recite the entire trilogy along with the movie in his own American accent—even all the evil British Imperials and Obi-wan’s lines—just to hear himself saying things Henry would definitely never say.

“Dr. Morgan?”

Tara Pascal, the OCME blood spatter analyst, had a box of files under her arm and a file folder in hand. Henry automatically turned to answer her, but then visibly stopped himself and shut his mouth. He grabbed a pair of callipers and stooped once again over the body to measure the bruising on Glasser’s neck, nose nearly buried in his work.

That left Lucas to his Big Boss Henry Morgan routine, which Lucas was getting kind of good at.

“Hi Tara,” Lucas said. Henry’s gaze flickered up to him, and Lucas cleared his throat. Okay, semi-good at. “Ms. Pascal.” _Stick to the point, say as little as possible,_ Lucas repeated to himself. “What can I do for you?”

“I added my report to the file on the John Doe stabbing last week. Wanted to get your final sign-off.” She held out the file folder to him.

Lucas tucked the gun under his arm and took the folder. He made a show of flipping through it, though he hadn’t worked the case and had no idea if he should sign off or not. Tara was really good at her job though, so the likelihood of any problems was almost nil.

Lucas grabbed up a pen from the bench to add Henry’s signature to the bottom of the report. However, when he tried to force it, the signature wouldn’t come. It took a few seconds of closing his eyes and trying to meditate himself into the right headspace, and eventually something twigged enough that it came. He didn’t like the feeling of Henry’s hand operating without him, but at least it was convenient.

“Great, thanks,” Tara said when she took it back.

She smiled, and her blue eyes were bright and wide against her pale, freckled cheeks. She had that kind of smile that always make you smile back, and Lucas scratched at his head, the awkward turn of his stomach hitting him as he grinned back at her.

Tara was definitely in the top twenty of Lucas’ very, very long list of pretty girls who made him behave like an idiot the moment they looked at him—but he’d given up on that one pretty much as soon as she made it very clear that her idea of a fun Saturday was getting up at six in the morning and going for a jog around Central Park.

That, and she’d turned him down flat when he’d asked her on a date. They were friends now, but that didn’t stop him going all wobbly when she smiled.

Next to him, Henry made a weird, overly loud throat-clearing noise, and Lucas shook himself. Right, Henry probably didn’t stand around ogling his staff thinking about how pretty their smiles were.

“Uh,” Lucas said, hoping against hope that his somehow Henry’s ability to speak to women without being an idiot would hit him. Signatures and accents were great, but he could really use a little style to get him out of this conversation smoothly. “How’s your sister doing?”

Tara’s mouth dropped open in surprise, and Lucas froze. She’d told him last Friday that her sister was going in for a back operation when they’d been chatting over the water cooler. There was no way Henry would know any of that.

Now he looked like a total creep.

In his peripheral vision Henry straightened up slowly. Lucas could feel his gaze burning a hole through him.

“Lucas told me about it,” Lucas said weakly, gesturing to Henry. “I hope she recovers soon.”

“Thank you,” Tara said. She was turning a little pink in the cheeks. “Yes, I think she’ll do fine. The surgery went smoothly, and she’s back home already.”

“Great,” Lucas said.

There was an awkward beat of silence, and Tara’s cheeks turned pinker yet, matching the hue of the hydrangeas in the beakers in the corner.

Tara tucked the folder on top of the box under her arm.

“I’m headed down to the records room. Do you need anything?”

He was about to say no until he remembered the gun tucked under his arm, bagged and ready for ballistics testing. She’d pass the testing range on the way to the records room. He held the gun out.

“Actually, yes. Would you mind dropping this off for me with Ballistics?”

“Can do.” Tara took it, and flashed him another smile.

“Thanks.” She had incredible blue eyes. Like the sky. Or a lake. And she totally into this conversation, and not just in a professional way, and _damn_ she was pretty.

She turned and left, with a last glance over her shoulder, and then walked on. Lucas watched her go. When he finally turned his attention back to Henry, Henry was leaning on the table, glaring at him.

“Please do not flirt with my employees,” Henry whispered through nearly mobilized lips.

“I wasn’t flirting,” Lucas hissed back. “I was—I was trying to be nice!”

“Then stop being nice.” Henry gestured to the morgue in general. “Polite and professional is one thing, but must you chat with everyone?”

“It was one person!” Lucas said. “One time! And I wasn’t—“

“Whoa there, guys, no disturbing the peace.” They both looked up to Detective Hanson standing at the end of the morgue slab, hands on his hips and eyebrows raised as he looked at them. “Long day?”

“Yes. Long day,” Henry agreed, casting a disapproving eye over Lucas.

“Very long,” Lucas added.

And what he wouldn’t give to go sit in the coffee break room and blow off steam like he would on any normal rough day, put his feet up and bitch it out with a few coworkers.

_Yeah, man, the boss’s pants are way too tight and his who-knows-what ladyfriend wants to have A Talk, but he won’t say why, and no one will talk to me because he doesn’t have any friends except his elderly roommate-slash-life partner, but talking to my friends is only going to lead to people thinking I’m crazy or that the boss is trying to hit on them. I know, right? Body switching, it’s the worst._

“Well, it’s gonna get longer,” Hanson said. “Jersey police picked up Molina an hour ago. He’s going to be in interrogation in a few minutes. Reece wants to know if you’ve got a scenario for Glasser’s death yet. Are we booking this guy for murder, or manslaughter, or what?”

Henry perked up at that, and Lucas’ own eagerness made his chest tighten painfully. He was growing to hate that feeling, the weird visceral excitement that was Henry’s bodily reaction to any strong emotion. The guy had no chill at all.

However, they had a shot at Lazaro Molina. Was he going to have some clue about what had happened to Lucas and Henry? But if he was stuck in interrogation, how the hell were he and Henry supposed to talk to him?

“Can you come up? Reece wants to talk it over before they get going on this guy.”

Lucas and Henry exchanged a glance, and then Lucas nodded.

“We’ll both come up.”

Hanson shrugged and shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Okay, bosom buddies, let’s go.”


	7. Chapter 7

Lazaro Molina was gazing into the depths of his coffee cup like it held the answer to all his problems when Lucas and Henry crowded into the observation room next to Interrogation Room #2. Lieutenant Reece and Detective Martinez were both waiting for them, conferring on the case.

Lucas was stuck between nervous excitement to get a look at Molina and see if he was who he said he was—but had no idea how he was supposed to tell—and terror over having to play Henry in an investigative setting. He might be able to fudge his way through the day in the morgue, but they were stepping way outside Lucas’ skill set now, and there was no way the student was ready to become the master. He wished he could remember more of those Sherlock Holmes books he’d read as a teen.

On the other side of the two-way mirror, Detective Hanson entered the interrogation room, and Molina winced as the chair squealed against the floor when Hanson pulled it out to sit. Molina had circles under his eyes that were nearly black against his brown skin, visible briefly when he lifted his head to give Hanson a baleful look before he lowered his head and rested his face in his hands.

Jo gave Lucas a nod in greeting. There was a message in the little arch of her eyebrows and the way her head tilted a bit to the side, but whatever that message was, he had no idea. It was hers and Henry’s secret code.

Jo Martinez was drop-dead gorgeous and had a tough lady cop voice that did uncomfortably pleasant things to him if he thought about it too much—and yeah, when she’d first started coming into the morgue, he’d thought about it more than a few times in the privacy of his own home—but exposure therapy was an amazing thing. The longer he worked on her cases alongside Henry, the more his crush had faded. Just as well; Jo was a total ten, but on the Venn diagram of their lives, the overlapping sliver wasn’t big enough to see under an electron microscope.

Except now she was looking at him like _that_. Lucas wasn’t sure if the tingly flip his stomach was doing was his own thing, or if it was an automatic reaction Henry’s body had whenever she was around, but it was hard to ignore.

_“Just tell her you prefer to talk about it later.” Thanks, Henry. Super helpful._

Jo obviously wanted to talk about ‘it’ as soon as possible. In Molina’s apartment she’d nearly backed him into a corner as soon they were alone. Whatever the hell was going on between her and Henry, he didn’t want to be in the middle of it. Or part of it. Sure, he was dying to know what it was, but this wasn’t how he wanted to find out.

Maybe he should tell her the truth. She and Henry were close, she’d probably believe them. Maybe she’d know how to fix this; she was good at figuring things out—

“Dr. Morgan, what do you have for me?” Lieutenant Reece asked.

A nudge in Lucas’ side interrupted his thoughts and his very lengthy staring contest with Jo. Henry, with a grumpy expression that gave his borrowed features a very forbidding air, tipped his head towards Reece to prompt him. She had her arms crossed and was all but tapping her toe with impatience.

“Well, Doctor? Do you have more information on Glasser’s death?”

“Yes—yes, we do,” Lucas stuttered. He took a deep breath, mentally putting on his Henry hat and tugging it down over his ears. He could do this.

The very intimidating Lieutenant raised an eyebrow.

Ah, crap. He couldn’t do this.

“Lucas,” he said, turning to Henry. “Why don’t you explain to the Lieutenant?”

“Thank you, Dr. Morgan,” Henry said. Henry practically pushed him out of the way with a straight arm with his eagerness to take over. “The bullet that killed Glasser does match the caliber of the gun found in the park. There was a vicious struggle, both the victim and her assailant struggling for control of the gun held to her head.” Henry turned to Lucas with his hands half-raised and outstretched, like he was asking Lucas to dance. “Dr. Morgan, may I demonstrate?”

Lucas drooped in defeat. He’d set himself up for this, hadn’t he? He looked like Henry and he was _still_ the victim.

“Go ahead,” he sighed, and turned his back towards Henry.

In a flash, an arm was around his neck, he was bent back, and Henry grabbed his right hand and held it to his head, like they were both struggling over a gun. Henry really had a good grip around his throat.

“Just pretending,” Lucas grunted, working a hand between his throat and Henry’s arm. “Right, _Lucas?_ ”

“Sorry,” Henry said, and his grip loosened slightly. Lucas’ own voice buzzed in his ear, and for a second it was like hearing himself talk again. God, he missed the sound of his own voice. “According to the bruising, they fought hard. Of course, with Molina’s 5’9” to Glasser’s 5’10”, the angle was more like this.”

Lucas squawked as Henry squatted down, wrenching him even farther until he was arched back, head trapped and fully immobilized, with firm pressure on his throat.

“Molina could have tried to shoot her in such a manner to make it look like a suicide. However, Glasser’s subsequent bruising left evidence of the struggle and ruined the illusion. Her muscle tone indicated she was very fit and strong, and would have given a smaller person a run for their money.”

“I think they’ve got the idea,” Lucas wheezed.

“Oh. Yes.” Lucas staggered forward with a gasp as Henry released him.

Reece and Jo were goggling at the show, and Lucas turned to shoot a very nasty glare at Henry.

“I guess I don’t know my own strength.” Henry laughed weakly, then clapped and rubbed his hands together. “Anyway. We have a partial fingerprint from the gun and DNA testing on semen found on the body, both tests pending with results shortly. If they turn out to be Molina’s, we have more than enough evidence to hold him.”

Reece accepted their report with a last long, sharp look at them and then gestured for Jo to join Hanson in the interrogation room.

“Go get him,” she said to Jo. Jo eyed Henry and Lucas on the way out, and Reece turned towards them once she was gone. “Nice work. I think,” she added, looking Henry over.

Lucas had always wanted to be more like Henry, with all his genius leaps of logic and reasoning, but given how Reece was looking at Henry in Lucas’ body like she might have to sedate him at any moment, Lucas wasn’t sure he wanted the full meal deal anymore. Reece looked to Lucas for some kind of explanation from the supposed man in charge of this circus. Lucas shrugged.

“I’ve encouraged Lucas to take a greater initiative in the investigation,” Lucas said, and he rubbed his throat. “He’s very enthusiastic.”

Henry grimaced and looked at his feet, then folded his arms and turned his attention to the observation room two-way mirror. Jo had entered and taken a seat next to Hanson, both of them with their backs to the mirror while Molina faced them with grim defeat. Lucas was happy to have the excuse to turn away from Reece’s intimidating gaze.

“I don’t know,” Molina was saying. His sullen attitude hadn’t improved in the face of the detectives’ suspicion. “I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember where you were two nights ago?” Hanson asked. “It’s a pretty simple question.”

“I went out, had some drinks.”

“And then?”

Molina leaned back in his chair with a huff and tilted his head back, then winced, returning to his hunched position.

“Too many drinks, okay? I don’t remember.”

“So what do you remember?” Jo asked. She leaned forward and leaned her elbows on the table. Lucas could picture her face, that narrow-eyed expression she got. “Are you still drunk?”

“I wish,” Molina muttered, closing his eyes and rubbing a hand across his forehead. Maybe not drunk, but barely out the other side of it.

“Hey Lazaro,” Hanson said, his voice purposefully pitched loud and sharp enough to pull another wince and another sullen glare from Molina. “Where you been for the last 48 hours? We know you weren’t at work.”

Molina shifted in his seat and shuffled his feet under the table. He looked everywhere but the detectives, but surrendered his bruised and bloodied pride with a shrug.

“Came to in Lincoln Park by the lake last night. Didn’t have my wallet and keys, so I crashed with a friend.”

“When’s the last time you saw Geri Glasser?” Jo asked.

The change in Molina was instantaneous. He shifted up in his chair and glared at them with bloodshot eyes.

“Is that what this is about? Oh, for fuck’s sake— _she_ came to _me_. It was her idea!” Molina was quivering with fury, and he leaned forward and put his hands on the table, challenging Jo across the table, then stabbed a finger at both of the detectives. “I don’t care what she said, I did _not_ force her. I wouldn’t do something like that, I’m not that kind of guy.”

“Are you the kind of guy who would do this?” Jo slid a photo across the table to shove it under his nose.

Lucas couldn’t see it, but the photograph would be the autopsy intake photo they’d submitted upon receiving Glasser’s body at the morgue, face half-destroyed by the bullet to her head. Even cleaned up, Glasser’s corpse was an ugly mess. At Lucas’ side, Henry leaned forward towards the glass, watching for Molina’s reaction. Lucas was pretty sure that if Henry could bust into the room, he would.

Actually, Lucas wouldn’t put it past him. He nudged Henry with his foot, and with a quick glance at Lucas, Henry relaxed a little, but resumed his attentive watch.

Molina’s understanding dawned as to what he was looking at. A good ten seconds ticked by without anyone so much as breathing. Molina picked up the photo and the paper trembled in his fingers, and he swallowed several times like he was going to be sick.

Lucas leaned towards the glass, stopping short before he bumped into it—was that the reaction of a murderer, a grieving friend… or someone looking at their own dead body? Somehow, he had the feeling Molina was exactly who he said he was, and that this was the first time he’d heard of Glasser’s death. He was a pretty damned good actor if he could fake that kind of shock.

“What happened?” Molina didn’t lift his eyes from the picture.

“Hoping you can tell us that,” Hanson said. He’d quieted in the face of Molina’s obvious emotion. “You said she came to your apartment two nights ago? What time?”

“I, ah…” Molina sniffed, blinking hard. “I guess about eight? Nine? After dinner some time.”

“You slept together?” Jo prompted. “We found her underwear in your bed.”

Molina nodded shortly. His tough guy act was crumbling fast; he was fighting tears, jaw tense as he ground his teeth together to keep his composure intact.

“She didn’t say anything, was just all over me. After, she freaks out and tells me she never wanted to see me again, runs out the door…” Molina looked up from the picture. “I didn’t do this.”

“You said you don’t remember where you were,” Hanson pointed out. “How do you know you didn’t?”

“I went out to the bar after she left.” Molina put the photo down and pushed it back toward Jo but stopped halfway across the table with his eyes riveted to it, fingers still clinging on it like he couldn’t let it go. “I didn’t do this. I couldn’t…” His face crumpled, and he sucked in a breath that caught in a sob. He covered his face with his hands and lowered his head. “Shit. This can’t be happening.”

“Why don’t we back it up,” Hanson said. “What was your relationship with Geri?”

Molina sniffed and ground the heels of his hands into his eyes before dropping his hands to the table and looking up. Between sobering up from two days of drinking and the tears, he looked like hell.

Lucas leaned close to Henry.

“I know I’m not an expert on hardened criminals,” Lucas whispered, “but I’m not getting the cold-blooded murderer vibe here.”

“Calculated killing is rare,” Henry whispered back. “Passion is a much more common motivator, and regret all too common.” He glanced at Lucas. “But I have to agree.”

In the interrogation room, Molina sniffed again and took a last swift swipe at his eyes with the back of his hand.

“I met her after I left the Air Force when I was having a rough time.” He shrugged, avoiding their gaze. “I cleaned up because she was worth it, you know? I got the job at United, she was doing the teaching thing, we were engaged. It was good.” He gave a humourless laugh. “But she always wanted more. Geri, she always knew _exactly_ what she wanted.” He chopped his hand against the table, marking out a precise, straight line in front of him. “The apartment wasn’t good enough, the money wasn’t good enough, _I_ wasn’t good enough…”

Molina stopped as anger choked his words. His eyes flickered to the picture and he closed his eyes, mouth pressed shut tight, and he shook his head silently.

“Your drinking?” Jo said quietly.

Molina glared at her with hollow eyes in a sallow face, his jaw clenched, and thick, dark brows pulled low. For a moment Lucas thought he was going to swear at Jo, but he eventually lowered his eyes to the tabletop. He tucked his hands between his knees and his shoulders rounded inward.

“Yeah. I guess. It, ah… It comes and goes. I keep my baggage to myself, right? But that wasn’t good enough. Had to be perfect for Geri.” The mocking cadence, the bitterness in his sentiment made it sound like something he’d said many times. “Things kind of went to hell for a while after that.”

“How did you end up working with her at Far Horizons?” Hanson asked.

“She recommended me to Janet last year.”

“Really? Why?” Hanson dropped his pen on the table top and leaned back in his chair to lace his hands across his stomach. “Didn’t sound like you and Geri were on good terms.”

“She knew I was getting back on track. We were working it out between us. Slowly, but things were on a good path.” Molina ran his hands through his hair, pushing back the disheveled, greasy mass. “Or I thought they were.”

“So that’s why she got you the job? Because you were back together?”

“Not exactly. When she started at Far Horizons, Figg was running that place into the ground—still is. Geri had plans to buy the school. She wanted to stack the place with her people so that when the transition happened, she knew the staff would be good people she could trust. I might be an asshole, but I’m a good pilot, so she helped me get the job.”

“And what did Janet Figg think of this?”

“I don’t know, but I wish I’d seen it. Figg is batshit, man. She fired one of the mechanics last year, and he didn’t want to go without what he figured he was owed. She pulled a gun and was screaming at him, telling him to get the fuck out before she shot him—over two week’s severance, that was it! Her versus Geri would have been fireworks I would have paid to see.” He smiled—a washed out, faded effort, and laughed shortly. “Dunno what happened. Figg never said anything about it, and Geri stopped talking to me after she told me she got the loan approval a couple months ago.”

“Why did Geri stop talking to you?”

“I wish I knew. Things were good, really good. We were seeing each other, going out on dates again, taking it slow. Then all of a sudden, she won’t talk to me. I try to touch her and she freaks out. She’s crying all the time, doesn’t want to fly or teach, keeps missing flight times and meetings, sneaking off and disappearing… It’s like she went crazy.”

Next to Lucas, Henry straightened up at that, and he elbowed Lucas in the side.

“Radical and abrupt personality shift,” Henry whispered. “Change in behaviours and habits, change in relationships—it’s circumstantial, but it does support her being switched as we have.”

“Do you think he the one who switched with Glasser?” Lucas gestured towards the two-way mirror between them and the interrogation. “Maybe this is all a story.” He frowned at Molina’s damp eyes and grief-stricken attitude. “A really good story,” he added.

“I don’t think so.” Henry folded his arms. “He clearly loved Glasser and had a close connection with her, despite their turbulent history.”

“What about you?” Jo asked Molina in the interrogation room. “What’s been going on the last few months? You said you keep it to yourself, but we have reports of you in verbal altercations with students and staff, and this is a recent arrest for assault.” Jo held up his booking record with the mug shot.

Molina swore quietly under his breath and looked away from the paper. He threw up his hands with a frustrated noise.

“Maybe I went a little crazy too, I dunno! But the last few months have been a mess, and I didn’t know what to do! I would have done _anything_ for her, and she treats me like a shit! One minute she’s trying to use me, next I’m a stranger. Then last night…”

“The students at the flight school described his irritability, shortness of temper, and evidence of drinking. If he struggles with alcoholism,” Henry said, his words speeding up with his energy of thought, “and possibly some form of post-traumatic stress if his allusion to his time after the Air Force is as I interpret it to be, then the emotional strain of her erratic behaviour would easily be enough to trigger a relapse and explain his reaction.”

“So who was it? It had to be—“

Reece cleared her throat loudly, and Lucas started and swivelled around to her. He caught himself before he started stuttering explanations and did his best to stop the frightened rabbit that had taken up residence in his chest in place of his heart. He’d practically forgotten that she was there, and that he and Henry weren’t alone. She was staring at them, having watched their whispering conversations for who knew how long.

“Did you gentlemen have something to add?”

“I think he has PTSD!” Lucas blurted. It was the first thing that came to mind from their discussion that had anything even tangentially related to the murder part of the investigation.

Reece gave him a blank look, then nodded slowly.

“That plus being blackout drunk,” she said, “and no alibi—he could have had an altercation with Glasser and not remember it.”

At the table, Molina sniffled, and then rooted in his pants pockets for a tissue. He pulled out a wad of paper and stared at it in confusion, then his mouth dropped open, and he straightened up. He dumped the crumpled fistful on the table between them.

“I was at the bars, and I used debit—I always use debit, I never carry cash. I’ve got receipts, this’ll say where I was, right? They’ve got times and shit.” He started sifting through the receipts. “There’s gotta be one here somewhere. What did you say? Hang on…I have never been so happy about these fucking useless things in my life…”

As Molina frantically pawed through and squinted at the pieces of paper, Hanson and Jo turned and looked towards the mirror, both bemused and looking for some direction on where to take the interview from here.

“Or not,” Reece said with a sigh. “Okay, let’s see if his alibi pans out. And if it does, we’re back to square one.”

She moved to the door and left the observation room, and a moment later she appeared in the interrogation room door and beckoned Jo and Hanson to join her in the hall.

Alone in the observation room, Henry turned to Lucas with a doleful sigh.

“If Glasser wasn’t speaking with him, then he won’t have much insight into if she was switched, or who with.”

“I guess at least we’ve narrowed down one person she wasn’t switched with,” Lucas said.

Henry nodded his agreement and shoved his hands deep into his pants pockets. Into his _jeans_ pockets—Lucas’ very comfortable, very relaxed jeans. Lucas shifted and reached behind him, but Henry gave him a very sharp look, so he refrained from picking the underwear out of his butt.

They were still no closer to finding out how to get this fixed, which meant yet another day as Henry Morgan.

Maybe he could talk Henry into considering jeans.

 

***

 

Henry watched the rest of Molina’s interrogation with increasing hopelessness. Jo left to confer with Reece, and as Hanson continued to question him, it was apparent that Molina had next to no understanding of what had happened to Glasser, or why her behaviour had changed so radically. He was far too absorbed in his own heartbreak and downward spiral, and closed out of her life despite repeated attempts to break down the barrier she’d thrust between them.

And yet, last night she’d come to his apartment and slept with him. Had Glasser switched back after months of being stuck in someone else’s body? Had she tried to repair the damage done to their relationship in clumsy, ham-fisted fashion?

When Molina found a receipt that placed him at a bar at 1:22am in Jersey City, Henry gave up and left the observation room, dejected. Lucas tailed after him. Neither of them cared to speak.

Jo was at her desk. Henry went over automatically, as was his custom after a witness statement. When he dropped into the seat by her desk, she looked up from her computer with a puzzled frown.

“Hi, Lucas.”

 _Lucas._ For a moment, he’d forgotten. He forced a smile.

“Hi, Detective Martinez.” Flat, informal, unfamiliar, both the shape and sound of the words.

“Did you need some—“ Jo’s gaze focused past him, and he was instantly forgotten. “Oh! Hey, Henry,” she said.

“Hello, Detective Martinez.” Lucas used Henry’s voice, Henry’s accent, Henry’s intonation to respond. It was disconcerting that the sound came from behind him and not from his own throat.

“We ran Molina’s prints against the partial in the system that you pulled from the gun. Inconclusive on the match, there’s not enough there to be sure.” Jo leaned her elbows on the desk. “It’s technically possible for him to have gotten from the bar to Midtown between the time issued on his debit card receipt and the window of the murder time, but unlikely. I’ve got a call out to the place to pull security footage from that night.”

Hanson, delayed from speaking with Lieutenant Reece, caught the last of Jo’s statement as he walked by Jo’s desk.

“I think he’s gonna alibi out. My bet’s on Figg, the Far Horizons owner.” Hanson tapped the sheaf of notes he’d taken in the room. “If she’s got as short a fuse as Molina says, and Glasser tried to lowball her with an offer for the flight school, who knows.”

“Yeah, it’s possible,” Jo mused. “Or she knew Glasser was planning a coup and threatened her. Could explain why Glasser’s behaviour was so off. The timing works out. I’ll see about getting Figg in here.”

“Sounds good,” Hanson said, stifling a yawn. “I’m calling it a night. I’ve got Soccer Dad sideline duty tonight. Gotta get home in time to chill the beer so I can make it through another game of watching Donnie score on his own goal.”

Jo chuckled and waved goodnight to Hanson as he drifted off, then rested her chin on her hands, sagging with her own fatigue.

“I was hoping Molina was our guy,” she said with a sigh.

Henry made a sympathetic noise, but he was too busy mulling over a plan to really focus. If the police weren’t watching Molina anymore, then tomorrow Lucas and he could visit him at his home and see if he had any information about Geri Glasser around the time of her radical personality change. Who she’d been with, who she’d been talking to. Perhaps it was someone at work, or…

“—Free after this? I wanted to go over some stuff with you.”

Henry jerked his head up, tuning into his surroundings once more. Jo had leaned close to Lucas, and her voice was dropped low to make it a very clear offer to only him. Lucas had bowed his head to hear her better, and they were close enough that it was a very private conference. Lucas was doing nothing to put her off, was instead leaning towards her as though magnetically drawn to her—oh lord, he was staring at her mouth like he might try to kiss her at any moment what was the daft idiot _doing_ —

“Dr. Morgan!”

Henry leapt to his feet, and his loud interjection made Lucas jump so violently that he nearly slipped off the edge of Jo’s desk. They gaped at him, and he spread his hands out, gesturing towards the elevators.

“I forgot, Dr. Vincetti needed a consult on L-424-E. You know, the middle-aged male with the bowel perforation? He wanted your opinion on whether it was a serrated blade or another jagged instrument.” He rolled his eyes at Jo, leaning in to speak out the side of his mouth with exaggerated zeal. “Nasty stuff, nearly ripped out his whole lower intestine. Took all afternoon to clean the smell out of—“

“And that’s enough right there,” Jo said, hands up as she leaned back with a scrunched up face. “Say no more.”

Lucas pivoted on his feet back and forth between Jo and Henry twice, caught for words, and then turned to Jo. He gave a strange little bow, that Henry belatedly realized was some mockery of Henry’s own.

“Sorry, Detective, I’ll catch up with you another time.”

“Right.” One corner of her mouth turned down. “Another time.”

Lucas lead the way with a quick step and Henry followed close behind, and Jo’s eyes tracking their exit—suspicion, irritation, confusion, Henry didn’t know which, but it was more attention than he wanted to draw from her. Henry held his tongue until the elevator doors closed, and then he rounded on Lucas.

“What are you doing?” he demanded, and then took a step back when Lucas whirled towards him with frenetic energy.

“I don’t know!” The words were sharp and loud in the enclosed space, and Henry’s natural accent cut hard through his vowels. Lucas held his hands to the sides of his head, eyes wide. “You hear that? I didn’t even mean to talk like you. It just comes out now.”

“Lucas, please. You can’t…whatever it is you’re doing with Detective Martinez.”

“Me?” Lucas scoffed, straightening up and brandishing a finger at Henry. “No no no, my man. Whatever is going on in here,” he swirled his hands over his torso, over a dress shirt and tie that had shifted over the day and now sat crooked, “it is not _me_. I keep having these, like— _reactions_ , and they’re all yours, Henry.”

“Kindly keep those reactions to yourself,” he said stiffly. “I manage to!”

“Yeah, sure you do.” Lucas closed his eyes and rubbed his fingers against his temples again. “I’m trying. This isn’t easy, Henry.”

Further recriminations fell dead on Henry’s tongue as he took in his errant reflection, his body as worn by Lucas. The strain of the day had drawn ugly dark lines under his eyes, his facial hair thicker and darker and making his pale fatigue more noticeable. He caught a distorted image of Lucas’ face in the polished chrome of the elevator control panel, distraught and strained. He’d erased easy-going, lackadaisical Lucas with a tense imposter.

The elevator door dinged and slid open. Two young uniformed sergeants stood waiting, and they stood aside for Lucas and Henry to exit. Lucas’ spine slowly stacked upright until he was walking without his normal slouch. Henry considered his own stance and made a conscious effort to relax and emulate Lucas’ less formal gait. They walked through the morgue to Henry’s office where they’d left their coats and bags.

“Lucas, it will be fine,” Henry said once they were in the privacy of his office. “We will _solve_ this. We’ll go home, we can see what Abe found regarding the baton. We can run the rest of the toxicology tests on the swabs from Glasser’s possessions, and—“

“I’m going to go home,” Lucas interrupted him. He pulled on Henry’s topcoat and draped his scarf around his neck. “My home. I’ll see you tomorrow, Henry.”

Henry stared as Lucas readied himself to leave, preparing to take Henry’s body with him—away from him—and leave his own body behind. A thousand objections welled up, so many he couldn’t decide which to voice first.

However, Lucas hadn’t been to his home since this began, hadn’t had the ability to speak with family as Henry had with Abe. He’d been forced to march through this madness without anyone but Henry and his criticism to support him.

No wonder he needed time.

“Yes, of course,” Henry said softly. “I’ll box this up and take care of it. If I find anything, I can call you.”

“Thanks.”

Lucas pushed out the door, walking away at a fast clip, head down.

Henry grasped the handle of the rolling metal cart hard and stamped on the desire to chase him down, to hold fast to the body that Lucas was tearing away from him. Lucas was making the choice to walk away from his own form as well, which was no doubt as disconcerting as it was for Henry. Henry would respect Lucas’ needs and… well, ‘suck it up,’ as Lucas would say.

As odd as it felt to catch glimpses of himself from the corner of his eye, it was much worse knowing that he couldn’t turn around and find himself if he needed to.

Lucas had taken his body away, and there was nothing Henry could do about it.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness you guys, abitofeveryfandom made incredibly adorable [Henry and Lucas bodyswapped fanart](http://abitofeveryfandom.deviantart.com/art/Henry-and-Lucas-body-swap-620789417)!!!!! LOOK AT THE ADORABLENESS!

According to the mirror on Lucas’s bedroom door, Henry Morgan was standing in his home. Lucas had wondered what that might be like, Henry coming over to hang out. Lo, Henry was finally here—in body, if not in mind.

Lucas was consumed by the overwhelming urge to tidy up.

The cereal dish was on the counter where he’d left it morning before last when he’d rushed out the door a few minutes late to catch the subway. This month’s Lego custom kit from his monthly subscription lay across the living room table, half-done and waiting for him to return from work, kick off his shoes, throw down take-out, flip on Netflix, smoke up and zone out. His house was a paused video frame waiting for Lucas Wahl to return and pick up where he left off.

He thought coming home would help, but if anything, it was worse. The merciless mirror cut him no slack; he was literally a stranger in his own home. It was 36 hours since he’d last stood in his apartment, but it felt like years.

Lucas shrugged his shoulders and the jacket slid off and crumpled to the ground. He rolled his shoulders, and Henry did the same in the mirror, an agonized groan of relief issuing forth. It felt so good to finally be free of prying eyes, to be free of Henry’s obsessive energy, to be alone.

Lucas kicked at the shoes, plucked at the strangling tie knot—then the buttons with increasing speed and urgency, and in the mirror Henry performed a frantic, hasty dance, stripping off layer after layer of stifling clothing until Lucas kicked away everything and stood there in the hallway, naked and panting with exertion, staring down the mirror.

 _Naked_ Henry Morgan was in his home.

Lucas took a few steps towards the mirror and Henry stared back at him.

“I’m Lucas Wahl,” he said out loud. Henry’s voice responded to his thoughts.

He couldn’t shake the accent now; it was his to keep.

Henry’s face was vulnerable and scared, and nothing like the guy Lucas knew. With the raging fear and nervous energy of Lucas’ personality, Lucas had taken Henry and turned him into a stranger.

He studied every line, every pore, every hair, until the features went from casually familiar to completely foreign and back, until finally every part he looked at gave him a sense of deja vu, like it was both the first and the thousandth time he’d looked at himself like this. Lucas stared in the mirror until his eyes watered, until expanses of naked skin cooled in the stale air of his apartment and he shivered.

The scar. Henry’s heart beat directly beneath the palm of his hand when he covered it.

Forget tough, it was a miracle Henry had survived this. Henry should be dead, and yet he wasn’t, and Henry wouldn’t tell him what happened.

Henry didn’t tell him a lot of things, and normally that wouldn’t bother him—hell, Lucas had put his job on the line for him on faith alone, because he trusted Henry.

He wished Henry had a little trust in return.

Lucas crawled into the shower and lost time under the rush of hot water, automatically soaping and washing with the blessed familiar scents of products he used every day, the rhythm and pattern soothing him, even if the body beneath his hands didn’t quite fit the routine.

Rifling his closet turned up an old pair of jeans that he’d bought online that were a hair too short, and with a roll to cuff the legs, they worked well enough. There was a plaid button-down that had shrunk but he’d never been able to part with, though he had to cuff the arms and ended up shoving them up to his elbows.

The overall effect, with the damp out-of-control curls, the filled in beard, and the not-quite-fitting clothes…

He’d turned Henry into a hipster dad. Add a pair of thick framed glasses and he was one Baby Björn away from Saturday brunch in Williamsburg.

The shower had washed away a great deal of his tension and cleared his head, letting him think beyond his own misery. While Lucas was here hiding, Henry was back home down in his laboratory running toxicology tests on all those samples they’d collected. Knowing him, he’d be up all night until it was done.

Henry had been wearing those clothes for two days, and would probably get up at the crack of dawn again to wash and dry them again. He wouldn’t have anything the right size to change into something different.

Lucas couldn’t do it. He couldn’t leave Henry with all that work.

With a sigh, he pulled his duffle bag out from under his bed and threw it on the duvet. Two days’ worth of clothes should do it. No way this could go on longer than that.

Not that there was any indication how it was going to end, and when.

It had to end. It would end—and to do that, they had to stick it out together. They were a good team, and that would get them through this.

 

_***_

 

Henry dragged himself into Abe’s Antiques fifteen minutes after closing time, using his back to shove open the door, as his arms were burdened with the large box of samples and toxicology test supplies. Abe, busy sweeping the floor, turned at the jingle of the bell over the door.

“Just me,” Henry said, letting the door fall closed behind him. “Going to do a little work tonight. We took all the samples this afternoon but didn’t have time to run them…”

Abe was looking past Henry, neck craned to peer out the window to the sidewalk and street beyond.

“Hi, uh…”

“Henry.” It was unspeakably discouraging to have his own son not instantly recognize him. “It’s Henry.”

“Oh!” Abe propped the broom up in the corner and hurried over to clear a space on a table for the box in Henry’s arms. “Hard to tell. You’ve got that accent thing down.”

“I think it’s a full-time feature, now. I suppose it makes the masquerade easier.” Henry put the box down, stretched his back and yawned. The short night’s sleep and tension of the day had more than caught up with him.

“Huh. So no luck with,” Abe made a complicated gesture with his fingers, wiggling them back and forth, “with the thing?”

“No, nothing. What about you? Did you find anything out about the wooden baton?”

“I’ve called every shop in town, asked my people who do wood carvings, and not a single hit. I thought I had a lead on spinning equipment, like spindles and that sort of thing, but I got in touch with a historical textiles expert and she said it’s not a match. It’s not common, whatever it is.”

“That much is apparent. God help the world if there are more of these items floating around.” He rubbed his hands over his face and flinched at the unexpectedly long fingers that nearly poked him in the eye. He growled, tempted to kick the desk in frustration.

Abe folded his arms and gave Henry a once-over.

“Why don’t you head upstairs? Soup’s on for dinner, it’ll be ready in a few minutes. Beef and barley.”

“Thank you, Abe. I’ll get this started and then be up.”

Henry scooped up the box and headed downstairs. The faster he got through his, the sooner they would be back to normal.

He set everything up in assembly-line fashion in his workspace, laying it out. He was surprisingly alert for how tired he was. He suspected Lucas’ circadian rhythms were different from his own, and while normally Henry would be winding down at this time, his night nearly done, Lucas’s body still had energy to burn. Convenient, given that he had four or five hours of work ahead of him tonight. The drudgery would keep him occupied; he needed to lose himself in work, to solve a mystery.

But why did it have to be the mystery of himself, yet again?

The board recording his deaths and reappearances, tucked against the back wall, taunted him with the fruitlessness of all his other research. He ran tests over and again, he measured and recorded, he worked endlessly, and where did it get him? Nowhere.

 _Nowhere is where these maudlin thoughts will get you,_ Henry thought.

Henry buried his head in his work and lost himself. Hours disappeared unnoticed, until the sound of Abe’s laughter broke through his narrow focus.

Upstairs, the bell of the front door. More peals of Abe’s laughter followed, great belly-laughs until he choked himself into silence, followed by a coughing fit and a wheeze.

“Abe?” he called. “Are you alright?”

“Oh god—Henry! Get up here!”

Henry dropped the chemical testing strips to the table and dashed up the stairs, scrabbling upward with his hands as well as feet when he misjudged the length of his stride and nearly pitched onto his face. He careened around the corner and cursed as he clipped his shoulder—the same shoulder that was already bruised—and came to an affronted halt.

Abe was nearly bent double, face red with laughter, and Henry couldn’t blame him. Red plaid. Jeans. A thick coat that was better suited to a lumberjack than how it decorated Henry’s frame. Lucas’ sheepish expression behind what was now a proper beard made the picture even more ludicrous. Dear god, he barely recognized himself.

And that…. That made it easier, all of a sudden.

Henry started to snicker, and Lucas’ eyes widened.

“Oh, come on!” Lucas protested. “Not you too! I think you look pretty good like this! You could consider dressing down once in a while, you know.”

“It reminds me of what I wore in the Klondike,” Henry said between chuckles. “Sorry, Lucas, I think plaid flannel is best left in the past.” Lucas opened his mouth to protest, but Henry waved him off. “No, no. Do as you will in your own time, we both might as well.”

Abe gasped and wiped away a tear from his face, and then pounded Lucas on the back, staggering him.

“Oh, kid, thanks for that. I have to take a picture before you go. I’ve gotta immortalize this.” Henry shot Abe a glare for the very unsubtle jab, but Abe crossed his arms with a grin. “To be fair, it’s better than some of the outfits you’ve come home in. Maybe I should start a series.”

“Abe,” Henry cautioned, but his good humour was catching.

“Okay, okay.” Abe held up his hands in surrender. “So, what’s up, Lucas?”

Lucas hefted a bag in his hand.

“I brought you a change of clothes. Thought you might want something different after two days in those. No plaid, I promise, but I hope you like superhero t-shirts.” He tucked his free hand into his jacket and ducked his head. “And I came to help with those tox screens if you’re not done yet. Figure it’ll go faster with two.”

There was a note of apology in the offer, and Henry’s conscience prodded him into action. He smiled and offered Lucas his hand, coming forward.

“Indeed it will. And this gives me the opportunity to offer my apologies for earlier. I think the stress of the day got the best of me.”

Lucas took his hand and shook it, oozing relief. He pumped Henry’s hand enthusiastically as he spoke.

“Yeah, me too. But we can get this done. And I had some thoughts on some leads we could follow with Glasser, though we could figure out a plan of action or something for tomorrow.”

“Excellent.”

But it was said absently; Henry was absorbed by their joined hands. Though it was his own skin, dry and smooth to the touch, it was startlingly unfamiliar, enveloped as it was by Lucas’ longer fingers and wider palm. Fine dark hairs on his wrist from the edge of the jacket and shirt cuff, the lines across knuckles, the small scar from some minor injury he’d long since forgotten before his first death.

“As familiar as the back of my own hand,” Henry said, giving a huff of amusement before releasing Lucas and holding up his own hand—Lucas’ hand. “A phrase I give more credit to, now.”

Lucas was rubbing his fingers together, as though the residual touch of his own body lingered, and he looked at his palm.

“Yeah. Not going to take that for granted again,” Lucas agreed.

“Okay, come on, you two. Food, then you can work until the wee hours all you like,” Abe said, and ushered them upstairs.

As they went up the stairs, Lucas asked from behind Henry, “So what were you doing in the Klondike? Little late for the Gold Rush.”

As it happened, he’d been right on time. He’d been in a period of wanderlust and found himself in the north, doctoring miners for the various ailments and injuries that befell them in the pursuit of riches. He’d been paid in sacks of gold dust, or small nuggets of the stuff, in return for his services. Somewhere in the lab he still had a gold nugget from those adventures that rested lifetimes in the past.

“It’s a long and dull story,” Henry said dismissively, brushing it aside and leaping forward into something to occupy their attention—and what better than the looming problem at hand. “But I look forward to hearing your thoughts on Glasser’s case. We can talk over dinner.”

 

_***_

 

Lucas’ telephone produced a thin, tinny noise like an insect buzzing and bouncing against a window. Henry looked up from his work to where Lucas was sprawled on the table top, slouching with reckless abandon.

Light from the screen danced over Henry’s kidnapped features as Lucas stared vacantly at the screen through drooping eyelids; he was barely awake, the hour much later than Henry’s body was used to. Typically any hours past midnight were hard-bought, and Lucas appeared to be feeling it. He’d soldiered through several hours working alongside Henry, but the five minutes off his feet had turned into a prolonged rest that was edging towards sleeping sitting up. Henry had decided to leave him be, as having his own body nearby was reassuring, and he didn’t want Lucas to go home just yet.

Lucas yawned, leaned his head on a fist, and poked at the phone screen. The noise stopped and then started again, this time with a constant hum punctuated by voices.

“What are you watching?” Henry straightened and stretched his back, Lucas’ long spine popping and unfurling. Muscles ached in different places than he was used to from his own long nights of work in the past.

“I’ve been trying to find out whatever I could about Geri Glasser,” Lucas said. “Her Facebook, Twitter and Instagram were locked, but she has a YouTube channel.”

Henry recognized Facebook from Abe’s attempts to educate him on the importance of social media marketing for the shop, but the other two passed him by. Lucas glanced up from the phone and saw his hesitation. He rolled his eyes and swivelled the phone around, propping it up so that Henry could see. Henry put down the petri dish and swab he was working with, and stripped off his gloves to come see.

On the miniature screen, Geri Glasser sat in the cockpit of a landed small two-seater airplane. The shot was from behind, and she twisted around to face the camera, the front windows of the plane and the bank of instruments behind her. She had oversized protective earmuffs hanging around her neck, and was wearing the ubiquitous navy-blue Far Horizons Flight School polo shirt with red logo. Her dark wavy black hair was braided back, and she had a dazzling grin as she spoke, a hand gesticulating some of the dials on the control panel.

“She’s got a bunch of webisodes,” Lucas said. “Stuff to study for your pilot’s test, techniques to remember, student flights, that kind of thing.”

“Webisodes,” Henry repeated. In Lucas’ accent, the word rolled off his tongue easily.

“Yeah, she made one every week, up until two months ago.” Lucas poked at the screen again, and a series of boxes presented themselves, each with a small frozen picture of Glasser. He swiped the screen and poked at the last in the column. “This is the last one.”

After a pause, the screen flickered black and then _‘Tips with Geri’_ flashed across in stylized letters that matched the Far Horizons logo, and then it cross-faded to Geri Glasser sitting in the airplane cockpit once more. It appeared to be a standard start for her films.

“Hi everyone,” Glasser said. Her smile was blinding, her energy relentless and aggressive. She sat with her body forward in her seat, like a sports coach delivering a motivational pre-game speech. “So you’ve been in the simulators, you’ve learned the pre-flight checklist and walk-around procedures. But the time has come,” she leaned back and patted the control stick and raised her eyebrows, “to get your hands on the real deal. Today we’re going to talk about your first flight in the pilot’s seat and what to expect.”

The tone of her voice was thick and husky, the sound of vocal cords exposed to years of cigarette smoke. Her lungs and the tell-tale staining of her fingertips had revealed her as a long-time smoker during the autopsy, but she’d had a package of nicotine gum in her pocket and no signs of recent cigarette use in her mouth or in the smell of her hair and clothing. Henry suspected the attempt at smoking cessation came alongside all the other changes in her life.

The video shot changed to the exterior of a plane. Glasser was walking around with a tall man with white hair and a thick moustache, dressed in casual jeans and a t-shirt, listening to her as she pointed out various parts of the plane.

“If you take a look in here, you can see the operational mechanism that manipulates the flaps,” Glasser said, wiggling the small aircrafts wing flaps and crouching to point into a small space in the body panelling. She had the lean body of a lifelong runner, and her movements had an efficient precision to them, her statements to the point and clear. “Bob here is my gorgeous helper for today. Bob, can you point to it for me?”

“Er yes,” said the man, and did as he was told—and now Henry recognized him from one of the many student photos gracing the flight school walls—and he bore an exaggerated look of concentration, as well as a discomfort that spoke to knowing he was being filmed and not being entirely at ease with it. He gave the camera an uneasy smile and pointed to the mechanism. “Right here, Geri.”

Lucas, eyes vacant and eyelids sagging as he stared at the video, gave a huge yawn. He lifted his head from his fist to give it a shake.

“Sorry, can’t stay awake. Dunno why,” he apologized, straightening in his seat.

“Most likely my sleep patterns getting the best of you,” Henry suggested. “Meanwhile, I am unexpectedly very awake at this hour.”

“Yeah. I get most of my best screenwriting done around now,” Lucas said through another jaw-cracking yawn. “I’m almost done my latest script for the 48-Hour Short Horror Film Fest. It’s coming up next month.”

Henry didn’t enquire, unwilling to risk even the sham of vague interest lest it set Lucas off rambling about creatures that went bump in the night and the finer points of achieving the proper viscosity in his homemade blood concoctions. He’d already heard more than enough over many an autopsy through the years.

“Relax, relax!” came Glasser’s tinny voice, with a hearty laugh, and a high-pitched screeching underlay her words.

Another shot of the interior of the small training aircraft, this one from a vantage point next to Glasser and pointing towards the co-pilot seat. A woman was clutching the flight control column with a death grip as the ground outside the window shrunk into the distance, the revving of the engine indicating takeoff. The screeching turned into disbelieving laughter, and Glasser shot a look to the camera, her eyes alight and teeth flashing.

“First flights are the hardest, but once you get off the ground, it’s all good,” Glasser joked, and she turned back. “Catherine, you’re doing great. Take a deep breath, think about something relaxing—garage sales or whatever.” There was a slight condescension to the advice, the cutting tease of the gym coach with the ungainly participant, cajoling them to a greater skill than they possessed.

“They’re estate sales,” Catherine huffed, but her voice was choked and thin with nerves, and Glasser laughed again.

Henry recognized the round-faced, freckled woman from the flight school, another student of Glasser’s who’d been doing her training before Glasser’s sudden change and was now trying to reclaim her money. Her nervousness was on the edge of giddiness, and she made another squeak as the plane rattled with turbulence, her bobbed red hair flopping with the jump.

“Right, right.” Glasser turned to the camera again. “Next week, we’ll focus on landing and post-flight checklists. See you all next week, and until then, clear skies to you all.” She put two fingers to her forehead in a casual salute, and the video ended with a generic synthesized snippet of theme music and the series logo.

Lucas flipped the phone to lay the screen face down on the desk with a grunt and put his head down on his arm.

“It’s all so normal,” he moaned. “What the hell happened?”

“One could ask the same in any murder,” Henry said. Hearing the happy, positive voice of the now-dead Glasser had lain a grey cast over his mood. “Lives cut short, threads dropped and left to unravel, potential lost.”

“But it’s not just any murder, is it?” Lucas said, raising his head. Henry looked into his own features, Lucas’ exhaustion causing his distress to amplify. “Two months, Henry! What if we’re stuck like this for two months? Or longer? She was like this before—“ Lucas gestured to his phone, “—and then you heard they way Molina described her! She was someone else, someone _completely_ different, and it ruined her life.”

Lucas swiped at his eyes, and Henry slipped off the desk.

“Why don’t you go upstairs and go to sleep. It’s late, you might as well stay here and get some sleep so you’re well rested. The police won’t be holding Molina any longer—we can track him down tomorrow, perhaps some of Glasser’s students and coworkers, and talk to them about anyone she might have known who also had radical personality shifts.”

Lucas sighed heavily and sniffed.

“Yeah, sounds good. Thanks.”

He trudged upstairs reluctantly, feet dragging, and Henry was left alone.

Two months. Henry had no idea how to endure two _days_.

If they couldn’t change this, it was possible that Lucas would have to endure it for much, much longer.

Or… Or maybe Henry would. Maybe his immortality had come with him, and he would be forced to live on indefinitely in Lucas’ body.

Henry went faint, and he had to sit again on the desk. He eyed the cabinet of chemicals in the corner, a number of suitably toxic substances within. At some point, if this dragged on…

He shook himself and firmly returned to his task. He had a few hours of work left, and no desire to sleep yet.


	9. Chapter 9

 

Lucas leaned into the bathroom mirror and poked at a strand of hair. He shifted it to the right, then tilted his head to judge the result. No, Henry usually had more of a sweep towards the back.

Lucas plucked up a comb from the bathroom counter and fluffed the small curl of hair before combing it back in with the rest, and he tilted his head again. In the mirror, Henry’s face turned a cheek to him, frowning with studious concentration. The expression might not quite be Henry’s, but the hair? Yep, that was it—the Henry ‘Do.

Last night, Lucas had automatically gone straight into Henry’s room, too tired to remember to take the couch rather than steal Henry’s bed, and paused only long enough to strip off and climb under the covers in boxers. Henry’s body had working on autopilot, Lucas’ mind sleep long before his eyes closed.

He’d woken up once more on Henry’s uber-comfortable mattress, staring at watercolour ladies in frilly white dresses.

Henry wasn’t looming over him this morning with grooming kit and clothing, and if Lucas had any say in the matter, it would stay that way. He was pretty sure he could figure out how to get himself dressed in Henry’s style. He’d gotten the hair right, after all, and while the beard was a little bit off, he kind of liked it—yeah, Henry could suck it up; he was going to have a beard for a while. Lucas rubbed his fingers through the softening bristles and over the unfamiliar jawline as he went to find an outfit for the day.

Henry’s walk-in closet was stuffed to the gills, every rack burdened to the point of collapse. Lucas ran his hands over suits in every conceivable colour of grey, brown, blue, and tan, fine wool through to woven linen. Not just modern suits, either; Henry had a lot of dated outfits, like he hit the vintage shops for fun and collected menswear from the different decades. A few had cloth thick and heavy to the touch, and Lucas wedged a space on the tight rack to have a look.

A tuxedo—an old one, with satin lapels and tails, and a white satin waistcoat beneath. Behind that, an American military dress uniform jacket, with rank insignia attached, and pins on the collar. It looked old, maybe from World War II, a family heirloom or another one of the collectibles that littered Henry and Abe’s home. Lucas pawed forward through the racks until he spotted some suits he could remember Henry wearing at work, and he selected a light grey suit that seemed like it wouldn’t be too stifling for the warm May weather.

A bank of little drawers took up the far wall, with a series of racks above it with ties and scarves hanging down. Lucas rifled through random drawers and managed to locate underpants and socks amongst the cufflinks, garters, cummerbunds, and tie pins. From a rack on the left side, he pulled a shirt, choosing white just in case there was some rule about shirt colours with suit colours he didn’t know about.

Once he’d dressed, he reviewed his success in the mirror. It wasn’t quite right; he’d forgotten the vest and tie. He didn’t know how to tie a tie himself, despite Henry’s hurried and snappish lesson yesterday morning, and it felt like a choke collar after a whole day wearing it. He’d skip it until Henry forced him into one—and skip the vest too, given that they had a stifling corset-like effect after a while. However, he couldn’t go without the scarf.

Lucas selected a blue silk scarf to drape around his neck, something light and summery with a little splash of silver in it. He surveyed the effect, and declared it pretty good. Hopefully Henry would appreciate the hair effort and let the rest of it go.

The apartment was still when he left the bedroom. Abe’s door was closed, and other than some soft snoring from the living room, all was quiet. Lucas caught a glimpse of a bare foot limply propped up on the arm rest of the couch.

He crept closer, Henry’s dress shoes slipping with a soft shushing noise over the hardwood floors, and peeked over the back of the couch.

When Lucas was twenty-two, he’d gone home for Christmas break in his last year of college, and been so exhausted that he’d come in the door, thrown his bag down, eaten a whole bowl of mandarin oranges, and fallen asleep on his back in the middle of the living room floor. To this day he couldn’t remember anything beyond getting on the Greyhound to come home, but his mom had the snapshot she’d taken of him, spread-eagled and snoring on his back on the cream shag carpet.

The scene before him was so much like that photo on the fridge that Lucas swore he could look up and around and find himself in his mom’s kitchen. Henry was sprawled across the tan couch, one foot trailing on the floor and one on the armrest, deeply asleep with the complete slack-jawed relaxation of a marionette with strings cut.

Was this what out-of-body experiences felt like, those stories of floating above your unconscious body while you stared at it?

How did you get back in?

The soft snoring scratched at the back of Lucas’ brain like cat claws, every easy breath a taunt that it wasn’t him, that someone else had everything that was him.

To keep himself from grabbing his body and shaking it until Henry fell out, Lucas retreated to the kitchen and grabbed a banana from the countertop. He should let the guy sleep, it’d probably been a late night. And not like they had to rush to get to work; they were going to go try and find Molina anyway, they could both call in sick or something.

Lucas snuck downstairs, since Henry and Abe were still asleep and he didn’t want to disturb them with his rattling around. The shop was the one place in Henry’s home that was relatively public space, and he could do some guilt-free poking around without violating any more personal boundaries. He could call it a research trip for set decoration for the next horror film, and with luck could also talk Henry into loaning him some things, since the price on most of the stuff was in the range of Lucas’ yearly salary.

As the quiet streets outside lightened and grew busy with cars, Lucas lost himself amongst the cabinets, vases, roll-top desks and ornate chairs. He pawed through drawers full of rings and trinkets, old coins and antiques books, loving the textures of brass, gold, wood, and soft worn leather against the pads of Henry’s fingertips.

A brisk knock on the glass door pulled him back to the here and now. Lucas looked up in surprise.

Jo Martinez, large as life, stood at the door to Abe’s Antiques.

“Crap, crap crap crap,” Lucas breathed, frozen like a prey animal in the rushes.

He looked over his shoulder towards the upstairs and considered running for it, but a glance back at Jo and her mystified expression, plus her tug at the locked door, made it clear that it wasn’t going to be good for ‘Henry’ if he did.

“Henry?” Her voice was muffled through the glass.

She was lit by early morning sunshine, dark hair swept up in a ponytail that blew in a light breeze, as she stood on the sidewalk. All of it was perfectly innocuous and normal. This was a scene they probably played out often; Jo picking Henry up on the way in to work, them talking and joking, possibly a little light making out before a crime scene…

The excited butterflies started doing the enthusiastic square-dance in his stomach that they did every time he saw Jo. Henry had it bad, and he could protest all he wanted, but his body knew what was what.

Lucas was the master of unrequited crushes, and he could deal with that kind of situation. Unfortunately, this one _wasn’t_ unrequited, and Lucas was a little less experienced at managing someone else’s hormones going mental and screaming that pre-work makeouts were an excellent idea.

_Keep it to myself, huh? Easier said than done, Henry._

Lucas considered the stairs again, but Jo rapped sharply on the door. The look on her face didn’t seem like the kind that preceded makeouts, so he shut the journal and went to the door and unlocked it. Jo was putting her cell phone back in her coat pocket as he pushed the door open.

“Hello, Detective,” Lucas said, doing his very best Henry impression. “What can I do for you this morning?” Keep it short, keep it to business. Henry was so uptight that maybe it would work, even with her.

Sure enough, she tipped her head back towards the street where her car was parked.

“I was just about to call up. Thought I’d catch you before you went in to work, give you a ride in.”

“Oh?” Lucas bit his tongue to keep himself from saying anything more, his back muscles clenched to the point of spasm with nerves.

“Got back some info on the murder weapon. It took a bit because it was registered in New Jersey, but we got an owner for the gun: Janet Figg, owner of Far Horizons Flight School. She’s being brought in now.”

“Oh—oh, that’s…”

Janet Figg, the crazy boss? Oh my god, did that mean she was the person Geri had switched with, too? Damn it, he had to tell Henry. He coughed lightly and gestured to the stairs behind him, backing up a step.

“Well, I certainly would love that normally, but I have a lot to do today at the morgue—”

Jo didn’t wait for him to finish his weak and stumbling excuse, but walked past him into the shop and took up residence in the middle of the floor. She put her hands on her hips and head cocked to the side as she inspected him.

“Fine, we’ll do this here, if that’s what you want. Henry, what is going on? You haven’t been yourself the last few days, and you’ve been avoiding me.”

If he wasn’t wound tight enough to explode, Lucas would have laughed.

“It’s been a long week, that’s all. Everything’s fine, trust me.”

“The last time you said that, you almost stabbed me with a stolen dagger. It’s going to take a little more time before you can say that and it works.”

“The pugio?” Lucas gaped at her. He’d tried to stab Jo with the pugio? _What the hell?_

“Dagger, pugio, whatever.” She rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“Uh—yes,” he stuttered. No, he had no idea what she meant.

“We talked about this, Henry. I thought we agreed, no more running around behind my back. No more secrets.”

How many secrets did Henry have? He was _made_ of secrets. And now he was made of _Lucas_ , and that was a secret too. She took a few more steps towards him, close enough to reach out and touch him if she wanted to, and oh he wanted out of this conversation. Running for the stairs was looking like a better and better plan.

“I’m not keeping secrets,” he said lamely.

“Yeah, I wish I could believe that,” Jo said sourly. “But your track record isn’t great. I’m willing to give you a little rope, but not if you’re going to hang yourself with it right away.” She threw up her hands with a frustrated noise. “Not that you have a problem with that, since apparently you’ll bounce back from that, too.” Her face pinched into genuine distress, and she dropped her shoulders with a sigh. “Henry, I’m trying, okay? It’d be nice if you try too. Just tell me what’s going on.”

Lucas scanned through vague excuse after excuse trying to come up with anything to keep this from going further. He was so bad at this, and he had no idea what she was talking about. What had Henry done? He’d been weirder than usual for a while, and Lucas had only seen a fraction of it, apparently. Henry’s random obsessions with cases wasn’t really all that new, and the rest of it he’d chalked up to the thing with Abe’s mom. Grieving did weird things to people.

_Oh…_

“It’s the—the funeral, and…and everything. You know.” He waved a hand aimlessly, not even sure what _everything_ was, but hoping Jo did. If he channeled enough of Henry’s _I’m deep and mysterious_ attitude, maybe it would be enough.

“Ah.” Jo blinked a few times, taken aback, and then she fell silent. She pursed her lips and looked away from him. “Damn it. I’m sorry, Henry. I’m still sorting through the stuff you’ve told me. I guess… I guess I forgot that you essentially just lost your wife all over again.”

Lucas went cold as all the feeling was sucked out of his fingers and toes. Henry lost his wife? Henry was _married?_

When—where— _what?_

The questions spun hard and fast, smacking him in the face like the spinning blades of a fan. And then, that tight punch of emotion to the chest, so hard it robbed him of the ability to breathe for a long second. He brought a hand to his sternum and pressed his fingertips to his heart, as if he could prod it into normal rhythm. The last time he’d felt this, he’d been looking at the photo of Abe’s mom. Was this Henry’s grief? Is this what it felt like to grieve the people you loved?

Lucas was lucky, he’d never lost anyone really close to him. His parents and grandparents were all still kicking, his life and the lives of his friends only tragic in how stereotypically boring they were. Suburban adventures, drinking in cars, some heartbreak in his university years, a dose of loneliness now and again, but never _this_.

“Yes, well,” he choked out.

Abe’s mom _and_ Henry’s mysterious wife, almost stabbing Jo with stolen evidence? Did Lucas know anything about Henry at all?

Jo put her hand over his, fingertips resting on his chest and very tangible through his shirt. His stomach dropped to the floor. Henry was an emotional rollercoaster, and Lucas was having a hell of a time hanging on without screaming his head off.

“I do understand, Henry, even if it’s not exactly the same. I know I said I needed a little time, but if you want to talk about it—”

“Detective Martinez,” he interrupted. “Jo. Wait.”

He needed to breathe, needed to think, before she dumped even more stuff on him.

Jo stopped, pulled her hand back and regarded him solemnly. He tried to breathe through the horrible storm of feelings.

He’d never been good at keeping secrets. They tore up his insides and eventually came spilling out, and he was about to explode. He couldn’t do this anymore, no matter what Henry said. This wasn’t right, none of this was right.

Jo meant well, trying to make him feel better, but all of this was for Henry. Lucas couldn’t sit through these intimate moments and pretend like he should be here, even if Henry’s body was suggesting to him very loudly and insistently all the kinds of intimate things he should be doing with Jo Martinez.

“Jo, I do have something to tell you,” he said. He swallowed, rubbing his hands together. “It’s a little…unusual.”

“What, like ‘hey Jo, I’m immortal’ unusual?” Jo joked, eyebrow raised and tone dry as a bone.

“It’s up there.” That’d be about the only thing more insane than this.

Jo sobered and folded her arms tight.

“I’m listening.”

Even if she thought he was nuts, he had to try.

“Okay. Well, you see…” He took a few deep breaths and started again. He didn’t want Jo to think Henry was crazy, but if she knew all these secrets about him, she’d probably trust him when he trotted out a few more, right? “A few days ago, we—that is, me and—“

A massive clattering in the hall behind them swallowed his words and he cut off. Stomping feet, followed by a curse, and then with a flurry of limbs, Henry, in pyjama bottoms, t-shirt, and Lucas’ gawky form, eyes blurry with sleep, burst into the shop.

“Hello!” Henry belted out between sucking breaths, panting from what looked like a sprint down the stairs. He shoved floppy, sleep-wild hair back out of his eyes. “Hello, _Henry_.” The stress on the name was just heavy enough to be a warning, and then he shifted his attention. “Hi, Jo! What are you doing here?”

Henry tugged at the rumpled t-shirt and pyjama bottoms, as though he could make himself look a little less like a slumber party guest by straightening out a few wrinkles.

“I came to talk to Henry about the Glasser case.” Jo’s mouth was round with surprise as she gawked at Henry.

“The case,” Lucas repeated, his emotional gauge stuck firmly between relieved and disappointed he hadn’t managed to tell Jo before Henry interrupted. “I mean, what else would we be talking about?”

“What else indeed,” Henry said, and he folded his arms. With his feet planted and his back straight, he looked way more like Henry Morgan at his most intimidating than he did like Lucas’ regular self, even taking into account the pyjamas and sleep-wild hair.

“Two days ago?” Jo glanced at Lucas again, referring to his abortive attempts to tell her the truth.

“Uh. Yes, we…” Lucas trailed off as Henry narrowed his eyes.

“You and Lucas… _oh_.” Jo blinked rapidly. She muttered to herself, “Wow, I _so_ did not see this coming.”

Lucas squinted at Henry in confusion, and then in a flash, her assumptions became apparent to both Lucas and Henry at the same time: she thought they were having adult slumber-party fun time, and she’d just busted them.

“Oh! No!” Lucas cried, waving his hands to try and wipe the thought from the air, Henry echoing him and shaking his head violently, and both of them converging on Jo.

“No, no!” Henry said with a bright, fake laugh. “No, my—my apartment’s pipes burst! Yes, and it was two days ago, wasn’t it? Seems like longer.” Henry wrapped an arm around Lucas’ shoulders, drawing him into a crushing side-hug. “Henry’s letting me crash here. Isn’t that right?”

“Pipes,” Lucas repeated, because his conversational ability had devolved to repeating words instead of creating his own. “Yes, that’s the thing I was going to say. Two days ago Lucas’ pipes burst.”

Henry laughed and thumped Lucas hard on the back. Lucas forced a laugh to try and match Henry’s, giving up and sliding back down into the pit of lies.

“Pipes…? _Pipes_ , right.” She blinked, brow crumpling up in thought. “But just so I’m clear, you two aren’t,” she gestured to the two of them, then brought her fingertips together and swirled them in an ambiguous gesture that could only mean one thing.

“No, absolutely not,” Henry said emphatically.

“Hey,” Lucas protested, pride pricked. “I’ll have you know that I am a catch, thank you very much.”

“I don’t doubt it, but I’m not casting my net at the moment,” Henry said, patting Lucas’ shoulder.

Jo covered her mouth and there was a soft snickering, which she wiped away in favour of exaggerated innocence when Lucas shot her a glare. His wounded pride was saved a little by the fact she was having a laugh at Henry’s expense, not his—but it didn’t help that much.

“But I’m glad I didn’t miss the party!” Henry exclaimed. “Have there been developments in the case?”

“I was just telling Henry we’re interrogating Janet Figg this morning. The murder weapon is registered to her.”

“Excellent! I’ll dress and be right down so I can come along.”

“Oh, you don’t have to—“ Jo started, but Henry waved her off.

“Nonsense, I’d be glad to.” Henry grabbed Lucas by the elbow and coaxed him along. “Abe wanted to speak with you before you left.” He eyed Lucas’ face. “And maybe you want to shave, as well.”

“I like the beard,” Lucas grumbled as he was dragged away.

Jo reached out and caught Lucas’ other elbow and halted their progress, and Lucas was caught in a brief tug-of-war between the two of them. Henry and Jo stared at each other across Lucas.

“But Abe—” Henry started.

 

“Tell Abe he’ll be up in a minute, Lucas,” Jo cut in.

Henry sputtered wordlessly for a few seconds, until Jo’s expression hardened into that _“do what I say or I’m going to go Badass Cop on you”_ thing she had down, and he reluctantly released Lucas.

“Yes, I’ll go up. Or, I can wait. Right here, since it’s important. The thing Abe wants, that is.”

He shifted on his feet but didn’t move back. Jo gave a huff of frustration and dragged Lucas back the way they’d come, far enough to speak quietly but definitely without much privacy given Henry’s obvious attempts at eavesdropping.

“ _This_ is the great big thing you were going to tell me?” Jo asked Lucas, hissing under her breath. “Is this why Lucas has been so weird too? You could have said without all the drama. God, Henry, you’re giving me high blood pressure.”

“It’s not like it happens every day,” he said in weak defense.

She punched him in the arm with another fed-up noise.

“God, I know not every little thing in your life is my business, but stop being such an idiot. After everything in the past few weeks, a little honesty goes a long way. And if you want to talk about the, uh…the other stuff, I’ll do my best, okay?” She looked past him, and with a frustrated sigh she shooed him away. “Go on, go see what Abe wants before Lucas has a meltdown.”

Lucas nodded and retreated while Jo made herself at home. He edged past Henry in the stairwell, pushing through the loudly unstated disapproval, and scampered up the stairs.

So much for the truth. He wasn’t sure he’d work up the courage to try again, now that even more lies were in place.

How did Henry live under so many layers of deception, like it was nothing?

 

***

 

By the time they reached the top of the stairs, Henry’s head was swimming. He’d woken to the sound of Jo’s voice floating up the stairs, and the rush that had sent him tumbling down the stairs had yet to fade, not to mention the surge of adrenaline when he’d walked in on Lucas about to tell Jo everything.

He rounded on Lucas the moment they were upstairs and far enough away from the staircase to not be overheard.

“Lucas,” he breathed, keeping his voice as quiet as possible, “what were you going to tell her?”

Lucas hung his head. He’d dressed this morning in a light grey summer suit, the jacket a slim and casual cut with a single button, with only a white dress shirt beneath, no vest or tie. With the light tan brogues he’d picked out and the thickening beard, the effect was very modern and loose. Henry was tempted to drag him back to the closet and dress him properly, but with Jo lingering downstairs there was no time to waste.

“I can’t do it, Henry. How do you do it?” Lucas whispered.

“Do what?”

“Lying! You keep it all in, you’ve got all these secrets—what the hell, Henry, you—”

“What secrets?” Henry demanded, his ears ringing with his rushing pulse. _Oh, no._ “What did she say to you?”

“Where do I even start? What did you do with the pugio I gave you? Did you really try to stab Jo?”

“What?” Of all the things he anticipated Lucas saying, of everything he’d braced himself to excuse and turn aside, he had not expected this. “That was a misunderstanding, I thought she was… It’s not important.”

“Not important. Are you kidding me?” Lucas put a hand to his forehead, pacing a tight circle in the living room. “She said you just lost your wife.”

Henry deflated as energy leaked out of him, his resolve to sweep all this aside punctured by the unexpected angles of attack. Two weeks since he’d buried Abigail, even though it had been thirty years since he lost her. He closed his eyes and drew a steadying breath, and drummed his fingers against one flannel-clad thigh. No point denying it now.

“Yes. Yes, I did.”

“I didn’t even know you were married.” Lucas dropped his hand, looking beyond bewildered.

“She’s been gone a while. I only recently found out she’d passed.”

“I’m sorry, Henry. And with Abe’s mom, too. Bad time.” Lucas absently rubbed at his chest with the heel of his hand. “Jo’s worried about you, I think. Pissed, but worried.”

“She’s a very kind friend,” Henry agreed quietly. “But she’s borne the burden of too many of my confidences, and I can’t throw this on her, too. Not when it’s going to be over soon, when we can move on like it never happened, Lucas. No one need know.”

“I can’t lie like you do, I can’t pretend I’m fine!” Lucas hissed. “And how do you know it’ll end soon? We don’t know anything at all.”

“It has to. Now, let’s not keep Jo waiting.” He turned away and went to the sofa and grabbed up the duffle bag Lucas had brought from his house, yanking out clothing. “We will find out what happened to Geri Glasser, determine how she was switched, and with whom, and find out how to fix this. When we are back to normal, everything will be fine, and we can continue on with our lives.”

Lucas pursued him, going to the far side and planting his hands on the back of the couch, leaning across. Henry reared back, disconcerted by his own visage looming towards him, like his face was coming at him out of the mirror.

“You have to tell me something if you want me to be able to pretend to be you!” Lucas said. “I can’t even _talk_ to Jo without it being a train wreck. I have no idea what is going on with you, and she obviously does, so—come on, man!”

Henry twisted the jeans in his hands to keep from losing his composure, pierced deeply by Lucas’ desperation. His voice cracked when he spoke, but he kept himself calm and measured.

“Let’s both avoid each others’ personal lives for now, and focus on solving this. I recognize that our positions do not afford either of us a great deal of privacy, and I’m sorry for that.”

Lucas was silent as Henry pulled the last few pieces of clothing out of the bag, and Henry fled to his bedroom to dress without giving him a chance to respond. He was perfectly aware that it was unfair, that he was asking Lucas to ignore and disregard a swath of information about Henry, as well as Lucas’ own feelings on this deception, but he couldn’t go into it now.

Ideally, he wouldn’t ever have to go into it.

Abe’s door opened as Henry passed it, and Abe yawned as he poked his head out the doorway.

“Hey, what’s going on?” Abe asked. “Everything okay?”

“Yes,” he said shortly. “Jo stopped by, we have to go.”

He went onward without further explanation, ignoring Abe’s curiosity in favour of speed. He disrobed as quickly as possible, trying to ignore the unpleasant dysphoria of mismatched limbs, long torso, everything in the wrong place and wrongly shaped as he pulled on t-shirt and jeans.

As he turned to go, Henry spotted his pocket watch on the bedside table. On impulse, he scooped it up and stuffed it into his pocket. He didn’t care if Lucas wouldn’t normally be in possession of it; being able to touch the warm metal in his pocket like a talisman of his identity would keep him sane. He also took the wooden baton in the crinkling evidence bag. While there was still no indication of its purpose or provenance, he couldn’t bear to be parted with it until the mystery of it was solved.

Henry drew a hand through the messy mop of hair on his head and hurried back to Lucas and Jo. With luck, the day would bring an answer and an end to their predicament.


	10. Chapter 10

No one was ever pleased to be in the interrogation hot seat, but Janet Figg was setting records for arrogant, self-entitled irritation by the time Jo and Hanson settled in to speak with her.

Henry had to practically shove Lucas into the observation room to watch Figg’s interrogation. After their disagreement this morning, Lucas was sullen and quiet. Lieutenant Reece was otherwise occupied, and so they had only the humming video screens piping in the footage from the closed circuit cameras in the interrogation room for company.

“So, when are those pipes getting fixed?” Jo had asked at one point into the uncomfortable silence in the car, to which Lucas had grumbled, “Not soon enough,” under his breath while staring out the window. Fortunately, Jo had left it alone after that, though she snuck glances at both of them the whole drive over.

Henry flirted briefly with the idea of bringing Jo into the fold of this disaster, but quickly discarded it. Doing so would necessitate explaining far too much to Lucas about his life, his condition, as they’d both need to speak to Jo—and she would definitely not be as willing to keep Henry’s immortality from Lucas as Abe had. Not to mention he’d already lied to her a great deal at this point, after all his promises. Much better to fix it and let it be forgotten—they need only hang on a little longer. Henry had repeated that sentiment to himself over and over until they reached the precinct, and wisely kept his mouth shut.

Inside the interrogation room, Janet Figg was loudly berating Jo and Hanson about lost work hours, bottom lines, and compensation from the NYPD for their “continued harassment.”

“Geri wanted to take over Far Horizons.” Jo pulled a few slips of paper from her growing file on the Glasser case and spread them on the table between them. “She’d secured loans for the purchase, and was ready to buy you out.”

Figg eyed the papers like Jo had sprinkled dirt on the table, but caution tempered her anger.

“With what she wanted to give me, I’d have barely walked away with enough money to buy myself dinner.” Figg sniffed in distaste. “It was a joke, not a serious offer.”

Next to Henry, Lucas let out a long breath, making a soft _oh_ , like he’d come to a revelation. Henry frowned, trying to figure out what clue he’d heard that Henry had missed.

“ _That’s_ why she didn’t want you to have it,” Lucas said.

“What?” Henry turned away from the one-way mirror and looked to Lucas. He was stroking his chin and his gaze was on the floor. “I beg your pardon?”

“The pugio,” Lucas said. He looked up at Henry. “Jo didn’t want you to have the pugio because you tried to stab her with it. Then I gave it right back to you.” His gaze turned inward “Geez. Maybe she _should_ have got me fired,” he said to himself.

“I didn’t—“ he looked between the mirror and Lucas, flustered by the half-told tale, but lacking any good excuse to offer instead. “Lucas, you misunderstood,” he finally said.

Lucas harrumphed and shoved his hands in his pockets. Henry let himself hope that Lucas would drop it, but that hope withered and died when in a mere two seconds Lucas turned to Henry again and raised a finger in the air for clarification.

“Okay, but how did I misunderstand ‘you tried to stab me? That’s pretty clear.”

Henry rubbed his hands over his face, unable to quell his racing heart and the strain that was making sweat gather on his back and start to dampen the foolish blue t-shirt that had a giant star at the centre of a bullseye emblazoned on the front.

“I didn’t try to stab _her_. I thought she was someone else.” Henry folded his arms and turned back to the mirror and Figg’s interrogation. “Now, can we listen, please?”

“Is it supposed to be better that you tried to stab someone else?” Lucas asked, incredulous.

“Lucas! May I remind you that Figg may well be our murderer,” Henry hissed. His jaw was starting to hurt from clenching his teeth so hard. “At this point, we need all the information we can get, so I suggest we listen!”

Lucas made another frustrated noise and turned away from the mirror, pacing the small observation room. Henry made a determined effort to ignore him and pay attention, even though his deeply ingrained paranoia was urging him to cut and run from Lucas’ questions.

But how was he supposed to run from someone who held half of himself captive? And how could he, even in the name of self-preservation, steal away Lucas’ body from him?

Inside the interrogation room, Hanson pulled out yet more papers to add to the display Jo had set out.

“We looked into your business, Janet. You were in debt up to your ears and behind on payments. Looks to me like selling was your only option.”

“It wasn’t until she started sabotaging my business!” Figg waved a hand across the papers. “The minute I turned her down, she and Molina start losing students left, right, and centre. Suddenly it made sense why she wanted to bring her boyfriend on board. When I wouldn’t sell, she sank my monthly income to force me to into it.”

“That must have made you pretty angry,” Jo said, her tone calm and reasonable.

“I started this business twenty years ago. I’m not going to sell it for loose change.” Figg folded her arms, still glaring at the papers on the desk.

“Angry enough to do something about it,” Hanson added. “You knew her and Molina were having personal troubles. You could make it look like he killed her, take out two birds with one stone.”

“You’re implying that I killed her?” Figg stared at them, as though it hadn’t occurred to her that anyone might ever suspect her.

“Do you own a gun, Janet?” Jo asked, baiting her.

“I frequently work alone in a building in the middle of nowhere. Yes, I own a gun. What of it? Lots of people own guns.”

“And where’s your gun now?” Hanson asked.

They were bouncing questions back and forth, keeping Figg off balance as she was forced to divide her attention between the two of them. Figg had her legs and arms crossed and her body angled away from them, like she was shielding herself from their questions. She glanced up at the two-way mirror with cautious suspicion, briefly meeting Henry’s gaze, though she didn’t know it.

“My gun is in my desk drawer at work, where it always is.”

“You sure about that?” Hanson reached down into the box he’d placed next to his chair when he’d entered the interrogation room and pulled out an evidence bag, setting it down with a clunk on the table. He adjusted the bag to make sure the gun inside was easily visible. “Do you recognize this?”

“Where did you get that?” Figg didn’t move, though her gaze flitted from the gun, to both Jo and Hanson in turn.

“We found it buried in the park where Glasser was killed, about ten feet from her body,” Jo said. “We ran the serial number, and it’s registered to you. This is your gun, Janet.”

Figg’s mouth pinched into a narrow, tight line, and with the crinkled crowsfeet at the corner of her eyes she abruptly looked older than her fifty-five years. She covered her mouth with her hand and she swore quietly beneath her palm.

Lucas was still pacing, his preoccupied energy a constant distraction, and when he passed close to Henry, Henry snagged him by the elbow to stop him.

“Lucas, what is it?”

“Did you actually stab them?” He gaped at Henry—the expression gave Henry’s stolen eyes a vaguely demented gleam. Then, in a hushed whisper, Lucas said, “Did you _kill_ someone, Henry?”

“No!” Whispers of guilt over what he had done to Adam flickered and flared, and his need to defend himself loosened his tongue. “I did what I had to in order to protect my friends and my family.”

“From who? What did you do?”

“Lucas! Enough!”

Inside the interrogation room, Jo and Hanson both looked over their shoulders at the mirror and then exchanged a confused look as the sound of Henry’s voice carried through the pane of glass. To their ears, that would have been Lucas shouting his own name. Henry prayed that with the muffling between the rooms, his words weren’t clear.

“Sorry, fine, sorry,” Lucas muttered, shrugging out of Henry’s grip and backing off with his hands up. “You’re not going to tell me anything, I get it.”

Lucas paced away again, running his hands through his hair. Henry winced as what had been remarkably decent styling on Lucas’ part was destroyed, and his hair began to point every which way. Henry very nearly said something, then decided that he didn’t want to get Lucas started again now that he was finally quiet. He returned his attention to the interrogation in the other room.

At the table, Figg uncrossed her legs and shuffled her chair closer so she could cross her arms and place them on the tabletop, fingers interlaced. She appeared to be finally taking the detectives seriously.

“I didn’t kill Geri,” Figg said. “Someone must have taken my gun. It’s not locked up, and everyone who works for me with knows it’s there.”

“Yeah, we heard.” Jo’s words held a sardonic twist. “You like to wave it around as a part of your employee dismissal routine.”

Figg winced, but she quickly shook it off and returned to her solid business-like pose.

“I’m not going to pretend I don’t have a bad temper. But you have to understand, I run this business on a narrow margin, and have done for ten years. I think I went to Connecticut for the weekend to visit my mother on her birthday four years ago, but otherwise I work round the clock, all year long—it’s my _life_. Yes, I was angry when Geri tried to pull this on me, and with all her underhanded tricks afterwards, I couldn’t afford to fire both her and Molina. I hadn’t had any luck trying to find pilots to replace them both. They both took low salaries when I hired them, and now I know why: they were setting me up for this. But I wasn’t going to kill her over it—right now, I couldn’t _afford_ to lose her.”

Henry noted that Figg didn’t argue with the fact that she’d been accused of murder and had the means—only that she had no motive. A charming woman all around.

“So you think all her unusual behaviour in the past few months was a plot to get you?” Hanson asked. “Kind of an elaborate plot, don’t you think?”

Figg snorted derisively.

“You didn’t know her. Geri was a calculating, manipulative cow. She would have done whatever it took to win. She played everyone to get what she wanted, and the tearful victim routine was just another angle. Maybe she finally bit off more than she could chew. Maybe Lazaro finally figured out she was stringing him along while she traded up.”

“What do you mean?” Jo leaned forward. “Traded up?”

“She was seeing someone in the city.” Figg crossed her arms again, a smug sneer on her face. “Two cell phones? She might as well have worn a shirt that said she was having an affair. She wasn’t subtle. No one has that many ‘dentist appointments’ in a month.” She made a gesture in the air with her hands, putting quotation marks around the term.

“Do you know who she was seeing in the city?” Hanson asked. “Names, addresses, dates?”

“I’ve got her absentee dates and excuses logged, but I don’t have any details.”

“Dentist,” Henry muttered under his breath. Something tickled at the back of his brain, some connection that he was missing. “That’s a very specific excuse.”

“Yeah, a _believable_ excuse that makes _sense_ ,” Lucas muttered, shooting Henry another sullen look, and Henry chose not to hear the pointed comment.

“How about where Geri was living?” Jo asked. “We checked out the address you gave us and Geri’s landlord said she’d moved out months ago.”

Figg frowned, her fingers tapping on her forearm.

“No, I don’t know. We didn’t talk after she made her underhanded offer. She started her sabotage routine, and it was all I could do to run damage control and cover her students, half the time without warning. I didn’t realize until the last week or two how many she was cancelling or switching with other instructors until she stopped being able to cover it up and I started getting phone calls.” Figg narrowed her eyes at Hanson. “And it’s only paranoia if it’s not true. She was too smart to do something like this at random, even if she got careless at the end. I know she had a plan—Geri always had a plan.”

“The dentist,” Henry said, snapping his fingers as it fell into place. “Glasser was trying to quit smoking. Her mouth didn’t show any recent signs of cigarette use—in fact, she had remarkable dental health for as heavy a smoker as her lungs and skin indicated she was. She must have had her teeth whitened.” He took a step towards the mirror, excitement carrying him into the interrogation, as though he could melt through the mirror and get in there.

“Where were you two nights ago, Ms. Figg?” Jo asked.

“Working. In my office.”

“All night?” Hanson added.

“Yes. Like I said, I pull long hours. Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve slept there. I have a cot in the break room that folds into one of the lockers.”

“Ask about the dentist,” Henry murmured as he shifted on his feet, growing restless and impatient.

“Can anyone corroborate that?” Jo continued.

“No,” Figg said shortly. “The mechanics were out at 7pm, and no one was in until Kevin came in at eight the next morning.”

“Ask about the dentist,” Henry urged under his breath again, willing Jo to read his thoughts through the mirror, but of course she remained unaware, and would be until he told her.

“Henry?” Lucas came to his elbow. “What is it?”

“You’ve got motive,” Jo said, “no alibi, and she was killed with your gun. This isn’t looking good to me, Janet.”

“I want to talk to a lawyer,” Figg said. She crossed her arms once more and leaned back in her chair, lips thinned together.

The interrogation was drawing to a close, Hanson already dictating Figg her rights, and Henry only had one option left. He headed for the door.

“Hey, whoa, what are you doing?” Lucas leapt in his way.

“I’m going to go ask Figg about the dentist myself,” he said. Henry tried to dodge around Lucas, but he stumbled slightly when Lucas’ lanky height got the best of him, and Lucas easily cut him off.

“No way,” Lucas said. “Maybe Henry Morgan can get away with that, but Lucas Wahl doesn’t bust into interrogations. You’re going to get me in trouble.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll make it quick,” Henry said with a reassuring slap on Lucas’ shoulder, which he followed through with a shove to set Lucas off-balance, and he dove past him to the door.

Henry hurried out of the room to the sounds of Lucas’ protests behind him in the observation room, and with a brisk rap on the door, poked his head into the adjoining interrogation room. As one, Jo, Hanson, and Figg all turned to gawk at him.

“Lucas, this really isn’t a good time.” Hanson pushed back in his chair and pointed a finger at Figg. “Kinda busy.”

“Yes, sorry. Just a quick question about Geri Glasser’s dental appointments. She’d had dental work done recently—teeth cleaning and whitening. Do you have any idea who she might have seen? Any at all?”

Figg darted an eye towards Jo, and Jo stuttered to regain her equilibrium and cover her surprise. She tapped her fingers on the desk and gestured that Figg could answer, if she chose. Figg shrugged, clearly looking like she didn’t think her situation could get worse.

“I don’t know, but the employees had the option to buy into a health and dental plan at a group rate. I guess the insurance company might know, if she filed for coverage.”

“Thank you!” Henry said brightly. Jo widened her eyes at him and cocked her head to the side in an unmistakable message to get the hell out of the interrogation room. “Ah. I’ll be going, then.”

He ducked back out into the open area of the detective’s bullpen, where Lucas was waiting—with Lieutenant Reece, who’d suddenly materialized at his side. She was staring him down with that unnerving focused way of hers, an attitude that was half impressive intimidation and half disbelief at his actions. He was incredibly familiar with it by now.

“Hello, Lieutenant Reece.” He smiled guilelessly.

“What do you think you doing?”

“I—we—had to clarify something we noticed in the autopsy. Geri Glasser had very white teeth.”

Henry waited for Reece to put it together, but she only closed her eyes for a long blink and sighed.

“And now I’ve got two of you,” Reece muttered. “I must be paying for something in a former life.” Lucas tipped his head forward to put his hand over his eyes as she turned to him. “Doctor Morgan, do you want to explain to me what’s going on?”

“Yeah.” Lucas took a deep breath and straightened up with a nod. “Yes, an explanation.”

Behind them, the door to the interrogation room opened. Jo led Figg away while Hanson came to join them. He gave Henry a bemused side-eye, and Henry tried his best to look innocent and unassuming. Meanwhile, Lucas looked like he was preparing himself to be slapped in the face as both Hanson and Reece waited for a very good answer.

“Figg said Glasser was cutting out on work for dentist appointments—plural—and by the look of her mouth, she did have some dental work done,” Lucas said. “She was making trips into the city regularly, so there’s a chance there’s a connection outside work that we can look into if we can get the name of her dentist from her insurance records.”

Henry blinked as Lucas rattled off the coherent explanation. He’d been paying attention, despite his absorption with the pugio and the misleading information he’d gleaned from his brief conversation with Jo this morning. Lucas looked at him and their eyes met, and he gave a slight approving nod. Lucas looked away without acknowledging, his attitude still tense. Henry tried not to let his guilt get the best of him, but Lucas’ frustration and panic-tinged curiosity was corroding away his hope that they would get through this with minimal damage.

“I think Figg’s good for Glasser’s murder,” Hanson said, hands on his hips. “Means, motive, opportunity.”

“But we still don’t know why they were in Manhattan,” Henry countered. “Nor the reason for Glasser’s strange behaviour, or who she was communicating with on this other phone of hers. Figg may have a motive, and it is her gun, but it doesn’t fit with everything else.”

“I hate to say it, but Lucas is right,” Reece said, gesturing towards Henry. “There are a lot of unanswered questions. See if you can find anything on where Figg was—run her plates through Traffic Control, see if they’ve got anything on any of the bridge cams the night of the murder. Run that partial print we pulled off the gun against hers and see if we can get anything conclusive—not that I think it’ll hold up as evidence with how small a fragment of a print it is, but it might give us some indication if we’re in the right ballpark. And might as well have a look into the dentist, see what comes up.”

“Okay, Boss,” Hanson said. He gave Henry one last suspicious glance, and then went off to his desk to start making phone calls.

Lucas shoved his hands in his pockets again and lowered his head as Henry came to stand next to him, but Reece cleared her throat and crooked a finger.

“Lucas, a minute.”

She moved a few paces away, and Henry followed her. Lucas murmured, “Told you,” very quietly as he passed.

Reece gave Henry no quarter once she had him to the side, and she backed him up against the wall with a dark, warning stare.

“Don’t make a habit of that, Lucas.”

“I won’t, Lieutenant,” he said, injecting humble sincerity into his words. “But in this case, I thought—“

“I understand that you’ve learned a lot working with Henry. That’s fine; he’s an excellent medical examiner, and a damned good investigator too, when it comes down to it. He’s a fantastic person to have as a teacher, but don’t pick up his bad habits.”

“Er, no.” Henry frowned, the small prideful glow over her praise fading into confusion.

“We appreciate Henry, but there will come a time when he goes too far. He already toes that line on a daily basis. Don’t stand at that line with him, Lucas.” She sighed, and turned so her back was fully to Lucas. “Frankly speaking, Lucas, you need to keep an eye on Henry. If I have to bend any more rules to accommodate his irregular methods, things will have to change—in a permanent way. I’m sure you don’t want that any more than I do.”

Henry leaned back against the wall. He glanced over at Lucas standing by the filing cabinets against the wall by the interrogation room, arms folded and staring out over the action in the bullpen. No one would have ever known, even with his change in style and stance, that he was anyone other than Henry Morgan, once again having wormed his way into an investigation.

Henry knew he pushed the rules and bent them to his favour. He relied on results to earn him the leeway he’d come to take for granted.

Henry was coming to the end of a lot of ropes lately. His hold on this life he’d built for himself was tenuous, and fraying in all directions. As a result of his desperation to find out what had happened to Abigail, of his confrontation with Adam, because of being forced into honesty with Jo… and now, this bizarre switch with Lucas, everything was coming apart.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Henry said. It was a bitter pill to swallow.

“Thank you, Lucas,” Reece said.

She left him to it, and Henry returned to Lucas. Lucas sighed and straightened up and they walked to the elevator.

“So, do I still have a job?” Lucas asked.

“Yes. Merely a warning not to do it again,” Henry said. The rest he kept to himself.

Once they were back to normal, Henry would see about returning his house to normal order. He’d gone three years with barely a hint of trouble—before he’d started attending crime scenes, before he’d taken an interest in pursuing cases beyond the doors of the morgue. Before Adam.

Before Jo.

When things were back to normal, he should consider returning to that insular existence.

 _When things are back to normal._ Lately, he prefaced all his thoughts with that very big caveat, and yet things were very far from normal, and showed no signs of correcting themselves.

“Come on, let’s go track down Lazaro Molina,” Henry said. “He seems to be the only person who had any social contact at all with our victim, however limited. Perhaps he can give us insight into the person who was masquerading as Geri Glasser.”


	11. Chapter 11

At the fourth Jersey City dive bar, they finally found Lazaro Molina.

It was after nine and the Friday night crowd was in full force. Henry and Lucas crammed their way into the run-down bar, whose interior was as run-down as the sprinkling of regular patrons mixed in with the weekend partiers. The deafening screech of two college-aged women giggling and howling into a karaoke microphone assaulted them, while a chorus of recorded backup singers _ooh_ ed and _aah_ ed on the accompanying musical track. The stuffy bar reeked of sweaty bodies, stale beer, and the sharp over-sweet tang of drinks spilled and not cleaned up properly.

Molina hadn’t been at his home when they knocked on the door, and so Henry and Lucas had worked their way down the list of establishments from Molina’s receipts, collected during his bar-hopping haze after Glasser slept with and then abandoned him.

Henry had offered to continue the search alone when Lucas’ feet started dragging after the second bar, but he’d shaken his head and stuck to Henry’s side, even though he was visibly exhausted from rising early. Though Lucas had kept further questions about Jo and the pugio to himself, the trade-off was unnatural silence that was starting to unnerve Henry. Other than necessary communication, Lucas hadn’t tried to engage him as they continued their mission, and Henry chose to let it be.

An unexpected boon to Lucas’ height was that Henry could see over the majority of the heads in the crowded bar from the elevated vantage point. He scanned the room quickly, and this time found their target.

Molina was propped up against the wall as he slumped in a chair at a corner table for two, a bottle in one hand and poking at salt packets with the other, shuffling them around into aimless shapes on the tabletop. His misery was at odds with the energetic crowd around him, which whooped and applauded the efforts of the young women on stage. Molina had cleared a buffer around him with his radiating dark mood.

“Finally!” Lucas shouted in Henry’s ear. “I thought we were going to have to check park benches, too. He doesn’t look in the mood to chat.”

“Let’s get drinks, see if we can approach him socially,” Henry said.

A trio of young men in matching sports jerseys with various numbers on the backs roared loudly as they knocked beer bottles together, and shoved Lucas in the back with their boisterousness. He stumbled into Henry, nearly toppling over, and Henry reached out.

An electric shock hit Henry as he caught Lucas to right him.

He’d missed the feel of his own body. His face, his hair, his body, his clothes… These things were his, and he was struck with a brilliantly blinding flare of possessiveness, fierce jealousy that they’d been torn from him without his consent. He tightened his grip, reluctant to lose the contact.

But the flare of nostrils, the eyes wide and mouth open with surprise—those weren’t his expressions.

They were jostled again by a woman edging past them, and it prodded Henry back into the present. He forced his hands to unclench and released Lucas—released his own body, again letting it slip out his control.

Lucas rubbed one arm where Henry had squeezed too tight, and before Lucas could ask Henry spun away with lingering unease and continued to work his way through the crowd to the bar.

Henry ordered three bottles of the drink special, some unremarkable pilsner that proclaimed itself a dubious king among beers. He handed one to Lucas and they made their way to Molina’s table.

Molina looked up with bleary wariness as Henry slid into the seat opposite him.

“You looked like you were running low.” Henry gestured to the two empty bottles on the table. Close up, it was obvious that these two drinks had not been the only ones in Molina’s night. Now Henry regretted supplying him with more.

Molina squinted them with mute suspicion. Henry smiled and offered a hand across the table.

“Hello, I’m…” Even with someone who didn’t know them, best to stick with the lie. “I’m Lucas Wahl.”

“Hey, I’m not interested,” Molina said, waving a finger between them and sitting back in his chair. “Try someone else for the kinky shit.”

“Great start, _Lucas_. Smooth as silk.” Lucas rolled his eyes and took a long pull from his bottle.

“What did you say?” Molina pushed up out of his chair, and glared at Lucas as his hands curled into fists. He was primed for a fight, the tone of Lucas’ voice enough of an excuse to fan the flames of grief ready to be channeled into anger. “Did you have a problem, fancy man?”

Lucas took a hasty step back, bumping into a group of middle aged women, knocking the arm of one in a dark blue blazer. She squawked indignantly as her drink sloshed and slopped over her hand and her shoes.

“Sorry, sorry,” Lucas said, hands fluttering uselessly, sloshing some of his beer to join her spilled drink on the floor, and then he swivelled back to Molina. “No, I didn’t—I was talking about my friend, he’s not great with people. I mean, he is, but never when he needs to be. Oh! Not that he needs to be great with you, we’re not—we’re not trying to pick you up, no, no! And I’m not normally this fancy, I usually prefer a casual look, but…“

Lucas blubbered himself into a verbal corner, but fortunately his stream of cowering excuses seemed to confuse Molina rather than enrage him. Denied the violent outlet he was spoiling for, he plopped back in his chair and grabbed his beer to take a sip, only to find it empty. With a shrug he put the bottle down and grabbed the full beer Henry had provided.

“What the hell do you want, man?”

“We were hoping to talk to you about Geri Glasser.”

Her name cast a pall over Molina, but he eyed Lucas suspiciously again and said nothing. Henry got the feeling that he would have better luck one on one, rather than with Molina feeling outnumbered and ganged up on. Henry jerked his head to indicate Lucas should go elsewhere. Lucas let out a breath with explosive force, one he’d been holding for a long time.

“Hey, I’m gonna go—uh—over there. And do a thing.” He gestured over his shoulder and then pushed his way through the crowd, eliciting another unhappy cry of protest from the group of women behind him as he jostled them. Lucas let fly more stuttering apologies as he worked his way onward.

“Sorry about that, Mr. Molina,” Henry said.

“How do you know my name? Who the fuck are you?” Molina leaned an elbow on the table, thrusting his face towards Henry. “How d’you know Geri?”

“We’re with the medical examiner’s office. We’re part of the team looking into her murder,” Henry said, opting for honesty.

“Aw, come on, what is this? I didn’t kill her! I got an alibi—it’s this dump, actually!” He gestured to the crowded bar with an expansive flail of his arms, then gave Henry a triumphant grin. “I was here, so go screw yourself, man.”

“We’re not police, but we are trying to find out what happened to her just as much as they are.” Henry leaned forward to make sure he was heard through the noise of the bar. “The police have arrested Janet Figg on suspicion of Geri’s murder.”

“Janet?” Molina slammed an open hand onto the table top, rattling the empty bottles and scattering salt packets. “I knew it! I knew it, I knew she killed—that she…” Molina choked and scrunched his face up. “Goddamn it.” He put his elbow on the table and covered his face with his hand, masking the tears that had welled up in his eyes.

“Mr. Molina.” Henry reached across and touched Molina’s arm. “Lazaro. I think that there’s more to it. I believe something happened to Geri before her murder, and that someone out there knows what it was.”

Molina sniffed hard and wiped his nose on the back of his hand, blinking myopically at Henry.

“What do you mean, something happened?”

“You said that Geri was different, that her personality was altered. She was behaving oddly.”

“Yeah,” Molina said, bowing his head. “Yeah, she wasn’t my Geri anymore.”

Henry was certain that was quite literally true.

“Do you remember when it started? I don’t mean approximately—I mean do you remember _exactly_ when? What day, or an event that preceded the change?”

Molina took a long drink from his beer and rolled the liquid around in his mouth before he swallowed and nodded slowly.

“I think—yeah, she took a holiday. I guess it was the middle of March, around there? She took a week. No reason, didn’t say where she was going or nothing. When she came back, she was like I said—acted like she didn’t know me. Acted like she was afraid of _planes_ , for god’s sake. Geri’s been flying since she was eighteen. She could fly in her sleep, and she refused to go up for almost three weeks. I took so many goddamn student flights for her to cover her ass, and she’d barely look at me.”

A holiday meant money spent—credit cards would be needed for large expenses, hotel bookings, and the like. From what he’d gathered from Glasser’s file, her spending habits involved withdrawing money from ATMs and using cash for purchases, which had left them frustratingly little data with which to track her movements before her murder. However, to his knowledge Jo and Hanson hadn’t looked back to months ago. He and Lucas could finagle that data out of the case file.

“Janet Figg thought she might be seeing someone else,” Henry said. “Do you think that’s possible?”

Molina sniffed again and took another drink from his bottle—it was already drained halfway, and Molina was starting to sag, the elbow planted on the table not doing the job of propping him up anymore.

“Maybe. Maybe she found someone better. Not like it’d take much. Look at me, man. I’m a fucking mess.” Molina’s slurred words thickened with inebriated self-pity, and he tipped his head forward into his hand, fingers sliding through his thick, unruly dark hair. “I fucked up so bad with her, back when. I thought I had my second chance, I thought we were gonna make it this time.” He looked up at Henry, the shadows beneath his eyes ringed by the ruddy skin flushed with drink and the heat of the bar. “Do you know what it’s like, trying to get back someone’s trust? I tried, man. But maybe I didn’t deserve her.” He muttered the last to himself, and took another long drink from the bottle in his hand.

Henry took a drink himself to cover his inability to respond, his thoughts full and dancing around the image of Jo, sitting in the armchair in his living room with his treasured family photo album spread across her lap, comparing the photo she’s brought with her of Henry, Abigail, and Abe to the other pictures, every once in a while looking up to draw the parallel to his current identical visage. So much suspicion, so much uncertainty.

“It’s not easy,” Henry agreed, but he spoke too quietly for Molina to hear him over the crowd and the karaoke.

They sat in silence for a while, and Molina finally roused himself.

“I gotta piss,” he said, and waved a hand over the table aimlessly. “Thanks for the drink.”

“Mr. Molina,” Henry started, standing up, rooting in his pocket. “Wait, one more question—do you recognize this?”

He pulled out the wooden baton wrapped in the evidence bag, and held it up. Molina waded through his haze into a slow nod, pointing at it.

“That fucking thing,” Molina said, his eyes widening. “Geri had that thing, she was always fiddling with it. What the hell is it? She wouldn’t tell me.”

He reached for it, but Henry jerked it back out of his grasp and stuffed it back into his pocket. Molina followed through the grabbing motion with underwater sluggishness, then frowned at his hand like he should be holding the item, but that it had unexpectedly passed through his fingers.

“She didn’t tell you anything about it?”

“No. No, she wouldn’t say, told me to fuck off when I asked. No—‘mind your own beeswax,’ that’s what she said once.” Molina snorted. “Girl had a mouth like a fucking sailor, and she busts that out? I woulda laughed myself sick if I wasn’t so pissed.”

Henry nodded, disappointment bitter in his mouth.

“Thank you anyway, Mr. Molina.”

Molina wasn’t listening anymore, his smile sliding away and the helpless despair returning. He wiped his hands over his eyes again, and then muttered something before he turned away to push through the crowd, unbalanced and his head hanging low.

Henry wasn’t going to get anything coherent from Molina now that he’d slipped into maudlin reverie. Henry had spent too many nights after Abigail left berating himself for the choices he made, for the mistakes, for the things he could have seen and done to make her happier, make her stay—all of it fuelled by the bottle until Abe pulled him out of it. He knew the path Molina walked right now, and he hoped Molina could find his way out.

Any residual doubt he had about Glasser being a victim of a switch such as he and Lucas were experiencing had vanished. Molina was genuine in his confusion and grief, and Henry was certain he knew nothing. Janet Figg seemed to have stayed very much the same in the past few months, and it was very possible that while she was involved in the murder, she was unaware of the switch, meaning she also had no idea who the other party might be. Henry’s instincts told him that the switch and the murder were linked somehow, but there was frustratingly little to pursue.

If he could find out where Geri had been directly before her unexplained week absence, find out who she had been with, they might have a shot at locating the other party.

Or, locating Geri Glasser in someone else’s body. That terrible possibility lingered. What if they’d never switched back? What if they’d found no solution to the effects of this incomprehensible device?

When would he have to explain to Lucas the truth of his life? He could only fend Jo off for so long before she unintentionally spilled all his secrets.

If he managed to keep Jo at bay, would the truth then come in a year, two years, five years, when Lucas realized Henry hadn’t aged?

Henry, for his own part, might look in the mirror and see Lucas’ face look back at him a little more lined, a little more weathered; grey hairs where none had been before, back aching a little more each morning, energy winding down a fraction at a time.

He might finally grow old and earn the twilight years he’d dreamt of as he came to bed at night to find Abigail already there, her aging features losing years in the relaxation of sleep.

Not earn—steal.

If Henry grew old, it would be because he stole that from Lucas. In return, the payment would be a curse which Lucas would have to struggle with.

_The first thirty years are hard. It gets easier after that…_

Henry cut the thought short by dropping back into the chair and downing the rest of the beer. He closed his eyes to let the ringing cacophony of voices and music blot out his senses. He couldn’t let himself think about this. Acknowledging the selfish spark of hope made him sick to his stomach. He should be a better person.

He’d lived with himself long enough to know that he wasn’t.

“Okay, I got this. Hit me with it, Karaoke Man!”

Henry lifted his head, jarred by the very distinct sound of his own voice being blasted through the bar audio system. The sharp hiss of recorded silence followed, and then a chorus of deep mens’ voices began chanting, “ _Ooga-chaka, ooga-ooga ooga-chaka_.” The bar erupted into screams of approval, and Henry leapt to his feet.

Over the many heads and bodies filling the space between him and the other side of the bar, Henry saw the makeshift stage in the corner—a small platform with orange shag carpeting that had been filthy from the moment it was first installed, with a string of tacky plastic pineapple lights and miniature glass disco-balls pinned into an arch-shape on the wall behind it to create the illusion of a stage proscenium. Where the two college girls had been sharing a microphone and staring at a screen, giggling as much as singing, there was now a single figure.

Had he ever wished to know what he would look like in the role of rakish sleaze, Lucas had aptly answered the question for him. Lucas had abandoned the grey suit jacket somewhere, pushed his sleeves up to his elbows, untucked the dress shirt, and was striking a pose while holding the microphone that made him look like he was about to fire a gun into the air while performing a bicep curl.

And then, into the microphone, Lucas bellowed, “ _I can’t stop this feeling, deep inside of me…_ ”

In perfect pitch.

Lucas’ usual warbling attempts at singing were painful, but tonight he was uncharacteristically on key. The audience clapped and screamed as he hammed up another line, exercising Henry’s perfect pitch and singing talents, and putting them to a use Henry would never have entertained in his wildest dreams. Though Henry didn’t know the song, the audience singing along with him indicated he was doing a very passable rendition.

His face was hot with second-hand embarrassment—though with Lucas wearing his body, he wasn’t sure if it was second-hand or first-hand.

Irritatingly, Lucas was rather good.

Dear god, people had their phones out and were taking pictures. In this age of relentless documentation and information overload, he’d surrendered somewhat to the understanding that he would be photographed, but he did his very best to minimize the opportunities. But here Lucas was, onstage with Henry’s face making an ass of himself while people took _pictures_ , to be forever documented on whatever social media platform was the rage of the day.

The applause was thunderous when he finally finished and took a bow, and two bouncing, smiling women met him when he tottered offstage, one holding out a small glass to him, which Lucas accepted with a surprised, pleased grin, and tossed back.

Henry waded his way across the room until he reached Lucas, and with a terse, “Excuse us, ladies,” to the two women who were engaging Lucas in conversation, he pulled him towards the exit.

“Oh! Uh, bye, nice talking with you! Have a good night!” Lucas called back as Henry dragged him through the crowd. “Hey, Henry, slow down!”

They burst through the doors and Henry dragged Lucas past the line of people waiting to get into the bar and the little gathering of smokers puffing away.

“Lucas, what do you think you were doing?” Henry demanded.

“It’s called ‘fun,’ Henry,” Lucas said, shimmering his hands in the air. “People have it sometimes, often in establishments such as this. You’re not old enough to have forgotten about it yet.”

“I think we may have slightly differing ideas of what constitutes fun,” Henry snorted, sure that he was too old for Lucas’ brand of it long before he was Lucas’ age. He frowned and tilted his head to get a look at the side of his face. “What—is that _lipstick_?”

Lucas put his hands to his chest, shaking his head with exaggerated protest.

“Look, man, I cannot help it if ‘fancy man’ Henry Morgan is popular with the ladies. Dude, how are you single when you look like this? I got digits! In like, fifteen minutes! And _she_ gave ‘em to _me_ —that never happens!” He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a napkin with a telephone number scrawled across it. He took a step to show it to Henry and staggered a little. He shook his head sharply. “Wow. That hit fast.”

“Are you drunk?” Henry a brief flashback to Abe’s visits home during his college years, when he’d come upon Abe sneaking into the house late, stumbling over furniture with snickering apologies and innocent denials. “Lucas…”

“Not drunk.” Lucas closed one eye and then the other, staring down the sidewalk as though planning out his trajectory. “Gonna be soon, though. The ladies talked me into the song with a shot. Or two. And then there was the victory shot. So—”

“So we are going home,” Henry finished for him, “and tomorrow you will thank me that I am not constitutionally predisposed to hangovers. Stay here, I’ll get a cab.”

“Righto, boss,” Lucas said, leaning a hand against the wall and stuffing his other in his pants pocket. He started humming to himself, then in a deep voice started to chant, “ _Ooga-chaka, ooga-ooga—_ “

Henry sighed. He was destined to haul his own drunken body home—and though he’d pay a pretty penny for Lucas to stop singing now, at least it was in tune. No doubt Abe would have a field day with this, setting another picture right alongside Lucas’ urban lumberjack impression. He stepped to the curb and hailed a passing cab, and prayed that pictures of Henry Morgan’s adventures in Jersey City karaoke would be soon forgotten in the flood of data that was social media, buried beneath ‘selfies’ and artistic pictures of cats and coffee.


	12. Chapter 12

Lucas woke with his face buried in a couch cushion, and with a dry, cottony taste in his mouth that felt like he’d been chewing on the cushion all night. Henry’s voice issued forth a yodelling moan of distress from his mouth.

Ah, crap. For five beautiful seconds, he’d forgotten.

“Rough night?”

Lucas pried his head up. Abe was pouring coffee. Oh, _coffee_. Yes, that sounded good—no, necessary. He pried himself up and staggered into the kitchen on wooden, stiff legs.

“Thanks, Abe,” Lucas said as Abe handed him a cup of coffee.

“Uh… It’s Lucas, right?” Abe scratched the side of his temple.

“Yeah.” He took a sip of coffee. “Can’t you tell?”

“Oh, yeah. Well, if you talk a little, that is. You guys sound a lot more like each other—got the accent things down.”

Henry’s accent was the default now. When Lucas got back to his own body, was he going to be able to speak like a BBC drama?

 _When_. More like _if_.

That depressing thought was not a great start to his morning.

“Hey, how about we get you some breakfast?” Abe clapped him on the back. “Henry went out a half hour ago, said he wanted to do some shopping, but there’s some leftover eggs and ham, if you’re up for that.”

Breakfast went down easier than expected; as promised, Henry’s body seemed to get over a hangover quickly—add that to the short list of benefits. Man, Henry was going to have a nasty surprise if he tried drinking in Lucas’ body. There was a reason he preferred smoking up to drinking.

Who was he kidding—there were more than a few benefits to this situation. The last time Lucas had been the centre of that much female attention, he’d been at his sixth birthday party and his mom, two sisters, aunt and grandma all crowded around him and pretended to kiss his face while Lucas howled that it was gross and he just wanted to eat his cake. That was another of the embarrassing Lucas photos posted on his mom’s fridge at home, come to think of it.

“Sorry I keep crashing at your house,” Lucas said to Abe as he washed up his dishes in the sink.

“Nah, don’t worry about it. This way you’ve got some people around who know what’s going on—you can be yourself.” Lucas snorted at that, and Abe winced. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah.” Lucas swiped at the plate in his hands and scrubbed off the last bit of egg. “I’ll go home this afternoon, let you guys have your weekend. Doesn’t seem like anything’s happening anyway, so me and Henry can get back to it on Monday.”

Abe gave him an understanding nod. After Lucas finished tidying up his breakfast mess, he went into Henry’s room to get ready for the day. It was Saturday, and other than going to his own apartment to crawl into his own bed and feel sorry for himself for twenty-four hours straight, he didn’t have any plans.

Lucas stood in the middle of Henry’s closet and shoved his hands into the middle another overburdened rack of clothes.

“Jeans, Henry,” he muttered to himself. “One pair of jeans, that’s all I’m asking for.”

The best he managed was a plain white undershirt and a pair of khakis that looked like they’d been ripped out of a 90’s Gap ad, and he threw them on the bed to change into. However, the lure of Henry’s fashion treasure trove was too much to resist, and he dove back into the closet.

To add to yesterday’s finds of the black tuxedo with tails and the WWII-era dress uniform, Lucas found an old-fashioned doctor’s lab coat with _H. Morgan_ monogrammed on the pocket, a fair-isle sweater vest that was handmade and had to be almost a hundred years old, a vintage jacket from the Sixties that had the piping around the collar like Patrick McGoohan’s Number 6, and a polyester brown suit that had silk paisley facing on the inside to match the late-70s, early-80s Remington Steele cut.

Was Henry a secret cosplay fanatic?

The wide-legged polyester number he couldn’t imagine Henry ever wearing, so on a whim he yanked it from the rack and pulled it on. It fit with the same tailored precision of any of Henry’s regular suits. To complete the outfit he dug through a set of ties and picked out a suitably wide number with flashes of orange paisley to match the inside of the suit’s trim. He couldn’t manage Henry’s fancy knot with all the swoops and passes over and under, but he tied a reasonably straight simple knot.

The effect was remarkable. In the mirror, Henry had stepped out of time. Lucas messed with his hair, trying for some kind of 70s wave. The full beard ruined the effect, but man…

“Knock knock,” came Abe’s voice, and a tentative rapping at the door. “Lucas?”

“Uh—uh, yeah,” Lucas called. He didn’t have time to chuck the suit, and so poked his head out the door of the walk-in closet. “Hi, Abe. What’s up?”

Abe held up Lucas’ phone.

“It buzzed. Thought I’d—what the hell are you wearing?”

Lucas reluctantly shuffled out of the closet, then held out his hands and spun sheepishly to model his find. Abe’s mouth twitched to the side in a half-smile, and then he shook his his head as he chuckled.

“Man, the stuff Henry keeps. Haven’t seen that one in a while.”

“What is up with this collection?” Lucas asked, pointing a thumb over his shoulder. “Dude’s ready for ComicCon.”

“Eh, Henry’s a bit of a collector, if you haven’t noticed. You saw that lab of his. He’s got serious nostalgia for bygone eras.”

Lucas patted the suit and looked down at himself. What a weird getup to see himself in.

Lucas’ stomach turned as he processed the thought.

No—see _Henry_ in. He wasn’t going to start thinking of this body as _himself_. He wasn’t. This was _not_ him.

Something stiff crinkled under Lucas’ palm. He seized on the distraction and dug in the pocket of the jacket to extract a small glossy booklet. It was a playbill for Bruckner’s Sixth Symphony, being performed at Carnegie Hall.

“Wow, cool! December 13, 1977—this is a collector’s item now, people totally pay for old handbills and stuff. I wonder how—”

“Must have come with the suit when he bought it.” Abe plucked the program from Lucas’ hand. He rolled it up and stuffed it in his pocket, then waggled Lucas’ phone at him. “Anyway! Your phone.”

“Oh, yeah. Thanks.” For a guy who sold antiques and collectibles, Abe sure didn’t seem as impressed by the little piece of history as Lucas was. Maybe 1977 didn’t cut it as historical in this house, but anything that happened before Lucas was born was fair game, as far as he was concerned.

Abe was scanning over the cluttered tabletops and dressers in the room like he was trying to find something.

“Everything okay?” Lucas asked.

“Hm? Oh, yeah. Why don’t you come out when you’re dressed for this decade? I bet Henry will be back soon.” He raised his bushy eyebrows as he said it, and there was a warning wrapped in his suggestion: _don’t let Henry catch you snooping through his stuff._

“Will do,” he said, and Abe took his leave.

Lucas thumbed over the phone screen to unlock it and scrolled through notifications. A missed call from his mom—and that was going to have to wait, because she didn’t do text and got offended when he emailed. She called him once a week to talk, but he was sure chatting with his boss wasn’t going to do it for her.

Half the emails were spam, and the rest of his alerts were event invites for this weekend. He had plans to curl up at home and feel sorry for himself, along with a hefty dose of losing himself in some fictional worlds and pretending he wasn’t in someone else’s body. The whole weekend was booked off for it, so no outings.

He had one text, and he looked at it last.

_Still on for tonight? 7pm? -Sabrina_

Lucas stared at it dumbly.

The date. Sabrina.

“No,” he breathed. “Oh, crap. Crap, no!”

How had he forgotten about Sabrina?

Twice he’d cancelled on her, with the stupidest list of reasons that no one should have ever believed, let alone forgiven. _Sorry, I woke up as a roguishly handsome British medical examiner and I’m kinda stuck this way_ was definitely not going to fly. This was his third and final chance, and if he cancelled again, she was gone.

Gone; everything they could have been, every bit of potential, up in smoke.

He liked Sabrina, he really did—she was sweet, and cute, and smart and interesting and knew so many cool things, and she liked him which was really the huge added bonus here—but it was just a first date. Logically he knew he wasn’t really losing that much if he missed out on this, but…

But that wasn’t all it was. Underneath all of his honest and genuine interest in Sabrina lurked the selfish fear that this was his last chance for everything—for maintaining what was left of the normal life of Lucas Wahl. He couldn’t mess this up on top of absolutely everything else that was going wrong. He couldn’t watch his life fall apart until there was nothing left to go back to.

He didn’t want to be Geri Glasser.

And in that state of blind, irrational panic, Lucas stabbed at his phone.

“Yes, see you there,” Lucas echoed as he typed out the words.

He pressed send with unnecessary force. The message swooped off through the ether, and before he could comprehend exactly what he’d done, a message popped up in reply.

_Great! Can’t wait! -S_

Lucas smiled, and then his stomach dropped all over again. He stared at the screen, horrified. What had he done?

What the hell did he do now?

He paced in a frantic half-circle back around the bed, his heart throbbing away violently. Henry’s tendency towards abject panic was hitting him—Lucas was way too familiar with riding the drama llama, but Henry’s physical reactions took freaking out to a whole new level. He took a few gasping breaths to try and calm down.

First things first.

Flowers.

 

***

 

“Lucas?” Henry called up the stairs to the apartment above. “Lucas!”

The large bag stacked on top of the two boxes blocked his vision, and with the other two hanging one on each arm hampering his legs with each step, he was going to fall if he tried to tackle the staircase.

The cabbie had reluctantly helped Henry get into the shop after Henry bribed him with a big enough tip, but Henry had no confidence in his ability to handle Lucas’ overlong arms and legs in negotiations that would break his neck if he failed.

No guarantees he’d bounce back from that mishap.

“Lucas!” he called again.

“What’s the racket? Henry? That you?” Abe’s footsteps thumped down the stairs, and Henry’s view changed from the white side of a paper shopping bag to Abe’s bemused frown. “What’s all this?”

“Proper clothes. It was long past time.” He looked up the stairs past Abe. “Where is he? They’re all going to be his in the end, the least he can do is help carry them up the stairs.”

“He’s not in.” Abe grabbed one of the boxes from the stack and tucked it under his arm and turned to go back up the stairs.

“Not in? What do you mean?” Henry tramped up the stairs after Abe, only tripping once as he hit the final step up, but he caught himself before going over. “Where is he?”

“Not too sure. He ran out of here like a cat on fire about an hour ago.” Abe set his burdens on the kitchen table, and Henry dumped the remaining box and bags down next to them.

“Did he say when he would return?”

“He shouted he’d be back soon and I heard him take off down the stairs. By the time I got out here to see what it was all about, he was gone.”

Henry went into the living room and looked out the window to the street below. It was mid-day, and traffic was light for a Saturday. He looked for Lucas amongst the passing pedestrians, and had to reset his eye to look for _himself_ among the people.

He wasn’t sure he’d be able to quickly recognize himself in a crowd at this distance. He leaned to get a wider angle and better view, and he bumped his nose and forehead into the glass. He pulled back and rubbed at the offended spots, once again jerking his hand away from the unfamiliar bone structure beneath his hands.

After hours of trying on clothing to match the measurements of Lucas’ body, of willfully disregarding the sight of Lucas reflected back at him in a change room lined with mirrors, he was mentally exhausted. He wanted to close his eyes and be still, not do anything to remind him that nothing was as it should be.

He’d pictured coming home and seeing his own body, what he should look like, grabbing hold to remember what he felt like…

But he couldn’t. He opened his eyes and peered out the window again, this time careful not to head-butt the window pane. Abe settled in at Henry’s side.

“He’ll be back, don’t worry. I don’t think you need to watch until he shows up.”

“Er, no. No, I suppose not.”

However, Henry had no control over when or if he would return, and the disorientation of knowing that Lucas had run off with his body wasn’t easily dismissed.

“Nice duds, by the way. Not sure what Lucas is going to think—you’re going a little Henry Morgan on his personal style.”

“I made an effort to select a modern cut in a casual style.” Henry tugged at the v-neck silk-cashmere blended sweater and smoothed out the front of the narrow legged light wool trousers. It hadn’t been an easy concession, but in the end he’d compromised.

“Casual at a country club golf course, maybe. Anyway, it’s better than what Lucas tried on this morning.” Abe dug in his pocket and pulled out a curled up piece of paper. “Which reminds me, you might want to weed through that costume box you call a wardrobe. Got some dated stuff in there.”

Henry took the paper from him, identifying the old Carnegie Hall program in an instant. He’d taken Abigail to this concert on her birthday, her elegant and stylish in a soft brown gown. He looked up at Abe with abrupt concern.

“Has Lucas been going through my things? How did—“

Henry cut off when jangling of bells and a door slam echoed up from the floor below. Then pounding footsteps across the floorboards and up the stairs. In a flurry of activity, Lucas arrived panting at the top.

He was a vision cut straight out of Henry’s past, nearly four decades distant from today. Henry glanced to the program in his hand, and yes, if memory served, that was the suit he’d worn that night, the colour matching Abigail’s dress.

Lucas was out of breath, and he clutched in one hand a bouquet of drooping dusty pink hydrangeas. He took a deep, long gasping breath, and one of the little petals from the globe detached and fell to the floor.

“Hey,” he puffed. He gave them a casual wave and put his hand on his waist.

“Did you run across town in that getup?” Abe asked.

“Oh.” Lucas looked down at himself. “Uh, yeah. Sorry, I forgot.”

The program crumpled as Henry’s fist tightened, and he forced himself to smooth it out and give it back to Abe. It was a memento from the night with Abigail, and he didn’t want to lose it.

“You went to the morgue, I see.” Henry indicated the flowers in Lucas’ hand. “Did anyone see you?”

“Only the weekend security guys at the front desk. I told them I was hitting a disco fever costume party tonight. They rolled with it, told me to bust a move for them. We’re good.” He frowned at Henry. “What are _you_ wearing? I look like I should be snorting cocaine off the back bar of Daddy’s yacht in the Hamptons.”

Abe chuckled quietly. Henry cast an unimpressed look towards his son, whose innocent expression had not changed all that much since he was a boy, despite the added decades.

“But anyway, Henry,” Lucas said haltingly, “did you ever do something—something really fast, totally on impulse? And then one thing leads to another, and…” He trailed off, gulping and looking down at the flowers in his hand, and then back up. Henry was unsettled by the gleam of Lucas’ desperation in his own eyes. “I need a favour.”

“What did you do?” The hairs on the back of his neck pricked up in a very unpleasant, unfamiliar fashion.

“You’ve gotta go on a date for me.”

Lucas held out the flowers towards Henry as though he were proposing. The flowers trembled with his pent-up anxiety.

“Well this is gonna be good,” Abe said. He sat in the chair next to the fireplace and crossed his arms, watching them both intently.

Henry looked at the hydrangeas which, despite some obvious wilt around the edges, had held up remarkably well under the fluorescent lights in the cool morgue. Lucas had not budged, still looking to Henry with his pleading gaze.

Henry strode over to Lucas, hooked a hand through his arm and dragged him onto the patio outside so they could speak in private. He would spare Lucas the humiliation of having this discussion with an audience. He pointedly ignored Abe’s disappointed sigh.

“You must be joking, Lucas,” he said once the patio door was closed.

“No. No, I’m not. I’m serious.” Lucas paced around the patio in his agitation, an odd spectre of Henry’s past in the suit decades out of style. “You have to go on this date with Sabrina for me. This is my last chance.”

“You want _me_ to go on a date with the woman _you_ are interested in? How is this a solution?”

“I know, I know! But… Look, it doesn’t have to be a huge thing! We’re going to see a movie, so just enjoy the movie, talk some about the plot points afterwards, say you want to see her again, and then you’re done.” He bit his lip as he finally stopped pacing and faced Henry. “Besides, I already confirmed.”

“Lucas!”

“Come on, man! I’ve spent the last three days trying to deal with your personal life. This is the least you can do.”

“I said we should stay _out_ of each others’ personal lives, if you remember.” Henry worked to keep his tone calm, but Lucas’ voice betrayed him and cracked into a high register.

“I want to have a personal life to go back to!” Lucas cried. “Being me is actually pretty dull, it’s not like there’s stabbing attempts and secret marriages and things like that. Please, I haven’t asked you for anything before now. This is easy, just one date.”

“Tell her you’re suddenly ill, that you can’t make it. She’ll understand that.”

“No, she won’t,” Lucas persisted. “I used up my excuse quota already. I know the warning signs of ‘never call me again,’ and the alarm bells are all a-ringing, Henry.”

“So she won’t call you again!” Henry snapped, his patience for Lucas’ short-sightedness exhausted. “For god’s sake, you’re hardly at a shortage for women you are attracted to. I’d be harder pressed to find a woman you _don’t_ fall all over.”

Lucas’ mouth dropped open in hurt surprise, and then his brow furrowed and lowered. It was an expression Henry had never had cause to look upon in the mirror. Lucas was furious. He brandished a finger at Henry.

“I don’t know what your deal is, if you’re content being alone forever, or what, but _I_ don’t want that. So, I mess it up. A lot. I know I’m not smooth, and I know I’m a joke sometimes—but you think it’s easy? Not everyone looks like you, Henry; not everyone can smile and be suave and have people tripping over themselves.”

“What? I certainly don’t do that.” But he did, on occasion, happily and broadly rely on his charisma. That was besides the point, however. “That has nothing to do with how I look.”

“Great, well maybe while you’re in there,” Lucas poked Henry in the chest, “you can turn me into Mr. Charm then, because I sure can’t manage it.”

“Lucas, this is not—“

“When I meet someone, and I like them, and they like me, that’s special. It’s rare, these days. _I_ don’t take it for granted! I have this chance, and I don’t want to lose it because of this stupid switch! Dunno about you, but _I_ don’t want to be alone for the rest of my life. Do you know what it’s like, being alone? It _sucks_ , Henry!”

“Do I know what it’s like to be alone?” Henry repeated. He laughed, incredulous, and his own temper rose to greet Lucas’. Lucas, the foolish _child_ , he didn’t even have the smallest inkling of what that felt like to be alone for decades, for a century, to wonder if you’d ever connect with another human being ever again, did he have any _idea_ —

The angry words died unsaid and settled back down into Henry’s gut. No, of course Lucas had no idea.

And nor should it make a difference even if he did; Henry’s life may have been longer, but it did not mean Lucas’ feelings were lesser than Henry’s. They both struggled with the same universal human desires; for companionship, for love, for acknowledgement. They weren’t so different, the two of them.

Unbidden, Henry brought his hands together and touched the spot where a wedding band had sat for forty years, where long ago another ring had been for ten years during his marriage to Nora. In between, fleeting relationships that lasted a year, maybe two, or five, until he was forced to move on and leave them behind.

He looked down and studied his hand—Lucas’ hand. Not the finger which had been weighted down by a ring, which had tanned and lost its indent with time.

He’d lost that telltale sign long before a death reset his body and erased the last traces of his life with Abigail; a small burn from stoking the fireplace one night while he sat with her, the little scar hidden in his hair above his ear where he’d cracked his head on an unseen corner when they’d moved into their last house together. He’d mourned those little reminders as much as he mourned her, the last vestiges of their life together fading away.

Abigail had been gone, he’d been alone again, and, as Lucas so eloquently put it, it sucked.

Lucas had paled when Henry looked up. He covered his mouth with his hands, eyes wide as he stared at Henry’s hand and the gesture he’d caught.

“Henry—I’m—I’m—I didn’t mean…” Lucas closed his eyes and dropped his head forward. “Oh my god, I’m such a jerk. I forgot. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, Lucas.” Henry cleared his throat to rid himself of the hoarseness. “I, ah. I do understand. Meeting someone you care for and who cares in return is not something to take lightly. Even when the relationship is in its infancy.”

Lucas sank into the chair by the outdoor table with a moan.

“No, don’t be nice, that makes it worse.”

Lucas fell quiet and bowed his head as though in prayer. Henry took the chair opposite him.

“I know it’s not a great plan,” Lucas said when he looked up. “I don’t really want you going on a date with the girl I like, but…. I want to have a life to go back to when we’re done with this. I want to be able to pick up like normal. I don’t want to be like Geri Glasser, or whoever she was, with her life destroyed and everyone hating her. I need this to go right.” Lucas put his hands together, imploring Henry. “Please. Just this once.”

Henry looked away from his own face, drawn with desperation. Lucas’ life wasn’t a makeshift temporary structure, founded on lies and fraudulent paperwork. He had hopes, dreams, family, friends, burgeoning romances.

Henry had his lies to protect, a teetering tower that was always at risk of falling down, but Lucas had a whole life to maintain. Of the two of them, Lucas had so much more to lose than Henry did. Henry could rebuild; he’d done it many a time, and though it was always painful, he had practice.

Maybe he did indeed owe Lucas the attempt.

It was only a movie.

“Very well. Just this once.”

Lucas sat up in surprise, and then let out a rush of a breath and closed his eyes, bringing his hands together and clasping them.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Henry said, raising a warning finger. “You’re going to have to teach me a lot about the cinema in a very short time.”


	13. Chapter 13

Lucas was willing to concede that Henry’s shopping trip had yielded a few really nice finds, but he managed to force him into a pair of black jeans to complement the dress shirt instead of the overly preppy dress pants. They’d nearly come to blows over the hair style, but finally Henry had relented and let Lucas take charge while he sat there steaming and pouting.

Henry finally left for the date only five minutes late, and Lucas collapsed onto the couch and kicked his feet up onto the table.

And that’s when it hit him. He’d sent his boss on a date with the girl he was into.

To distract himself, he pulled out his phone and thumbed through emails. At least those he could answer without any problem. Facebook was a little harder, with having to turn down half a dozen invites for events in the next month he probably would have gone to. Not to mention one costume party he would have totally invited Sabrina to as a second date, if tonight had gone well.

Which led him right back to Henry being on a date with Sabrina.

The thing was, he didn’t know if he was going to be happier or sadder if she had a good time and wanted to see him again afterwards. Henry had this way of cranking out the charm, and what if he did his suave sophisticated routine in Lucas’ body, and then she expected him to be super cool, and he wasn’t?

“What the hell was I thinking?” he said aloud, letting his head fall back on the couch back.

He slouched down and buried his nose in the phone, flipping through alerts, cleaning out unnecessary pictures and videos, tidying up apps he didn’t use—anything he could think of to fill time.

He hit YouTube by accident, and his last search turned up: Geri Glasser’s YouTube channel and all her flying advice videos.

Lucas clicked on the first video, the one he’d watched at least a dozen times.

Geri’s face appeared after the title screen. She was standing outside a plane on the tarmac of an airport, with big planes in the background. She had her hands on her hips, her hair tied up in a tight bun to keep it from blowing in her face. She squinted into the sunlight a little, but her smile was firm and determined.

“Ever since I was a little girl, I knew I wanted to fly. I looked up at the sky, and I dreamed of being up there.” She looked up at the blue sky above her, and then she patted the side of the little white prop plane behind her. “It seemed like a dream back then, but that dream became a reality. I’ve been flying for twenty years now, and I couldn’t imagine my life without it.”

She walked towards the camera, and she folded her arms across her chest, the lean muscle well defined as it flexed, visible thanks to the short-sleeved polo shirt she wore with the flight school logo.

“Your dreams are only a few steps away from becoming a reality. It doesn’t matter how old you are, what walk of life you’re from; if you want to fly, then you can. So as you go through your training flights, be sure to tune into my weekly episodes. This week, we’re going to focus on—“

Lucas paused the video. Geri’s dynamic expression froze on her wide, professional game-face smile. It was a million miles away from the cold, pale inert body lying in the morgue, dead and gone. Geri Glasser was dead, and she wasn’t going to fly again.

Or would she?

They’d been investigating her murder, but who was to say that it was Geri Glasser who died in that park? She’d been acting weird right up until her death, according to Molina and Figg and the statements from the other employees at Far Horizons Flight School. Geri Glasser could be out there somewhere, living her life looking like someone else, ready to fly again whenever she could.

If he were stuck in Henry’s body for the rest of his life, what would he do? Would he try to pick up his life where he left off, or would he have to start again? Or would he have to try and live out Henry’s life, take on all of his responsibilities and friendships and…

In the corner of his eye there was motion. Abe was holding a glass of wine out towards him. Abe smiled sympathetically.

“Thought you might need it,” he said.

Lucas took it and had a sip as Abe made himself comfortable on the other end of the couch. He swirled it and had a sniff in the glass, hoping he’d smell cinnamon or blackberries or sweaty saddles or something he could identify so he could sound intelligent or knowledgeable, but all he could smell was wine. He took a tentative sip. It sat heavy in his mouth and filled his head, and there was a comfortable glow that came with the taste. He didn’t normally like wine, but this was alright.

“Thanks. It’s—uh. It’s good. Nice flavour.”

“Wondered if that might work. It’s one of Henry’s favourites.”

“Huh.” Lucas had another sip, and yep—he liked it more than he normally would, even if he couldn’t get all snooty with the bouquet or whatever. “It’s crazy, all this stuff that came along for the ride with Henry’s body. I never know when I’m gonna run across it.”

Abe nodded slowly, and he crossed his legs as he settled himself.

“Anything else in particular hitting you?” he asked.

He took another sip of wine and shrugged.

“Things here and there. Weird feelings, or habits, or reactions. It’s like I can turn off my brain and his body goes on autopilot if I let it.”

“Don’t let him autopilot you in front of a bus or something, okay?” Abe said, raising an eyebrow. Even though it was a joke, it lacked a little on the delivery, and Lucas had to force his answering chuckle.

“Don’t worry. I want my body back, I’m not going to do something stupid like die in his.”

Abe smiled briefly and grunted in agreement, then took another long swig of his drink. Lucas stared up at the ceiling.

“Man, I don’t even know if I want the date to go well or not. I—oh, jeez. Do you think if him and Jo are a thing, this counts as cheating?”

Abe scratched his head and wrinkled his brow.

“I’m not sure. I think the rules get a little blurry when you start dating someone else’s girlfriend when you’re in their body.”

“She’s not my girlfriend yet, but with luck…” he sighed. “Do you know what the deal with him and Jo is?”

“Hell if I know. If you find out, let me know,” Abe snorted. “I don’t think they’re involved, but they’re, y’know. It’s complicated.”

“Yeah, I bet.” Was there anything in Henry’s life that wasn’t? He drank down the rest of the wine, which had disappeared a little too fast, and he looked at the empty glass. “Man, I just want to get high and watch stupid movies all night and not think about anything. This week has been too much.”

“Hah! Now that would be a sight,” Abe chuckled.

Lucas gave him an appraising look.

“Do you wanna…” He held his fingers up to his mouth pinched together as though holding a joint, and Abe raised an eyebrow.

“It’s been a while since that was my usual Saturday night.” He laughed again and leaned forward to put his wine glass down. “Ah, what the hell, it’d be a hoot. Half of it is because I want to see what Henry looks like when he’s baked, mind you. I know he’s done it before, but he was always too far up on his high horse to ever smoke up with me.”

Lucas grinned and flapped his arms wide.

“Happy to oblige. I got some stuff at home. I’ll run and get it and come back.”

“Might want to lose the duds first.” Abe pointed up and down to the brown 70’s suit that Lucas hadn’t yet taken off in the frenzy to get Henry ready for the date. “There’s only so much reliving of my youth I can take in one night.”

 

***

 

This wasn’t the cinema. This was one of those psychological sensory experiments wherein researchers exposed tests subjects to random images and loud sounds in an effort to evoke primal responses.

Henry gripped the arms of the creaky seat and did his very best to pay attention to the film, but the eye-rolling levels of schlock combined with the rapid flashing from shot to shot was making him ill. Not to mention it was damned frightening.

At his age, having experienced all the horror there was in the real world, it shouldn’t have scared him. However, he started every time yet another twisted, macabre monster figure leapt out of nowhere to elicit screeches from the main characters, who flailed their weaponized lacrosse sticks at the beasts. The manipulative nature of each fright was formulaic and predictable, but without the numbing effect of exposure and experience with this form of media, to his chagrin Henry fell for it every time. He hoped whatever ingrained skills Lucas had for putting up with this tripe would set in and help him get through it, but there was no help from that physical quarter.

Henry jumped again, and this time Sabrina reached over the armrest and put a hand on his leg. She leaned close, pressing against his arm and shoulder.

“How did you make it through the Thanksgiving Weekend Horror Fest if you freak out like this all the time?” she whispered.

Henry chuckled awkwardly, and she squeezed his thigh. Henry fixed his eyes on the screen and focused very, very hard on a young man in a bloody lacrosse uniform howling curses as he leapt from the top of a pickup truck with his stick raised to pummel the form of a snarling beast.

Sabrina was a lovely young woman, all things considered. Very intelligent, with an earnest attitude, and able to ramble on about her interests with barely a breath between sentences. Her capacity for topical enthusiasm reminded him a great deal of Lucas. He could see why they clicked, and why it was that Lucas thought there was potential for the two of them.

Upon first meeting her outside the movie theatre, he’d presented her with the wilted hydrangeas Lucas had forced him to take, despite Henry’s reservations.

“They were the same colour as the shirt you wore the first night we met,” he said formally. “I saw them a few days ago, but couldn’t let them pass by when they reminded me of you.”

She went from cautious and a little reserved to wearing a charmed, doe-eyed smile, and she clutched the little bouquet. She had apple round cheeks that complemented the corkscrew curl of her hair and the bounce of her personality, and Henry found himself grinning like a fool in return, oddly tongue-tied.

“That is really sweet, Lucas. Thanks!”

Lucas’ ham-fisted courtship technique worked. Henry suspected he was fully in territory he didn’t understand.

Henry had hazy memories of formal dances in his young courtship days, delivering notes and hopeful words to young ladies, coy behind fluttering fans, on behalf of love-sodden friends. It had been a long while since he’d wooed on the behalf of another, and certainly never in this personal a fashion, like Cyrano de Bergerac delivering elegant words on Lucas’ behalf so he might reap the benefits.

His plan had been to charm the young woman adequately and then cut the evening short, pleading exhaustion, and secure a future engagement for Lucas where he could impress Sabrina himself.

However, that cool logic did not hold up when he was beholden to Lucas’ bodily responses to the woman he found very, _very_ attractive. When Sabrina laughed and bumped against Henry, his face went hot, flushing bright red. Every time she touched him—like her strong hand on his thigh, or her chest pressed to his arm as she leaned close to talk to him—his head went blank as the points of contact became the only thing he could process.

Lucas’ body was a hormonal mess, and Henry was reduced to reciting all the bones of the body from head to toe in order to keep from embarrassing himself in public.

Henry couldn’t remember if he’d ever been like this in his youth. What was he like in his actual thirties? He’d been a married man for almost ten years at that point, and then immortality had been rudely thrust upon him and romance had been far from his mind for decades. He was fairly certain that he’d never had Lucas’ overclocked libido. Did Lucas walk around like this all the time? No wonder the boy turned into a blubbering mess at the slightest bit of attention paid him.

Sabrina withdrew her hand, and Henry let out a long and controlled breath as he rubbed damp palms surreptitiously over his jeans. Only a few more hours of this torture, and he could be on his way. All he needed to do was make sure she was willing to see Lucas again—the real Lucas, who would be able to respond in intelligent fashion to her incomprehensible pre-movie discussion of directors and their oeuvres, various employed tropes, and whether or not a romance would arise between two characters in this, the third part of a series.

Henry did his best to call to mind anything Lucas had told him and stutter responses, but everything he’d said disappeared under a flood of giddiness when she hooked her arm in his and cozied up to his side.

The movie ended, and Sabrina practically hop-scotched her way from the movie theatre, bouncing from foot to foot as she screeched her enthusiasm for the film. She had an impressive ability to rattle off words until they were a speeding blur, her arguments full of vocabulary that he recognized but that possessed completely unfamiliar meanings in this context. Henry nodded and tried to keep up, but his attention kept drifting to the fetching parts of her that bounced along with her enthusiasm. When he caught himself ogling her with slack-jawed appreciation, he excused himself to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face.

Sabrina was waiting for him outside the theatre, and he smiled at her. She didn’t quite meet his eyes, however, and then dropped her attention to her tennis-shoe clad feet. He had to concede that Lucas’ decision to wear jeans was the right call; he would have been far overdressed, and a bad match for Sabrina’s tight t-shirt and comfortable jeans and shoes.

“May I walk you to the subway?” he offered. “I’m headed back towards the city.”

“I’m headed the other way. I’m good, thanks.”

She said no more—a very poor sign.

“I had a good time,” he said tentatively. “Thank you for tonight.”

“Did you?” She folded her arms as she looked up at him. “I’m not getting that vibe. If you didn’t want to see me, you didn’t have to.”

“No! No, I was looking forward to seeing you a great deal. A lot, truly.” He laughed shortly, without much humour. “You wouldn’t believe the lengths I went to in order to make it happen.”

“What?” She frowned, obviously put off by the response, and Henry put his hands up to erase his bitter words.

“I’m sorry, no. That’s not what I meant.” Lucas deserved a better effort from him than this, and Henry rallied past his discomfiture to speak to her. “I did want to be here. It’s been a difficult week—work-related events—but after our last few failed attempts, I didn’t want you to think I didn’t want to see you.”

“Oh.” She tucked her hands in her pockets, her shoulders hunched, and she swivelled her weight on one foot uncertainly. “Well, I didn’t mean to force you into it if you weren’t up to it.”

This was not nearly as easy as he’d pictured it. Cordial politeness did not cut it with Sabrina. She had a youthful energy that showed a heart worn on her sleeve, and his formality was rebuffing her efforts.

Part of Lucas’ dubious charm was his similar trait, the one that set him rambling on endlessly about every fact or thought that crossed his mind. Lucas’ honesty was inescapable, even though he suspected Lucas wished he could hold his cards close to his chest at times. Henry tried to channel Lucas’ naive, trusting spirit, and hoped that he would forgive Henry for baring Lucas’ thoughts to the girl he was trying to impress.

“You didn’t force me, I forced myself.” _Or rather, the man inhabiting my body._ Henry put aside his own concerns and focused on Lucas’ motivations. “I’ve been talking all week about how much I’ve been excited for tonight—I’ve been driving my coworkers a little crazy with it.” There was a tad more self-awareness than Lucas possessed, but close enough. “After we met, I knew I had to see you again. I don’t often find someone I click with as well as you, and no matter how busy my life has been these last few days, I wanted the chance to have that again. I’d hoped tonight wouldn’t be the only chance, but the first of many more.”

 _Please_ let it be the first of many more, because he wasn’t sure he could go home and tell Lucas he had failed. He needed Sabrina to hear Lucas’ earnest sincerity; there was a sharp edge to Lucas’ desperation, and Henry didn’t want to push him over it. If they couldn’t keep their heads through this situation, they were going to end up like Glasser, both of their lives spiralling into irreparable messes.

He envied Lucas his ability to speak liberating emotional truths, able to pour his heart out, take risks, and leap at opportunities. How often did Henry let people pass him by? He closed himself off to connections that would only snap and break as time relentlessly rolled on. He justified it as the smart choice, even as he turned a blind eye to the isolating repercussions.

Sabrina stared up at him silently, dark brown eyes wide, and Henry wondered if he should say something else. He had little to add, as all he could think at the moment was how very attractive she was. Not his own type, but very definitely Lucas’.

She moved closer to him and put her hands around his waist, and what little was going on between his ears went up in a puff of smoke. She grasped hold of his collar and tugged him, unresisting, into a kiss that tasted of popcorn and minty chewing gum.

“You are so sweet,” she said with a laugh when she released him.

“I’m sweet,” Henry said automatically, because he wanted to agree with her. He blinked when the words coming out of his mouth registered in his thoughts. “No—I meant… thank you? So are you?” He tried to muster a more coherent response, but none was forthcoming.

 _At least I sound like Lucas_.

Sabrina giggled. She put her fingers through his hair and Henry’s scalp tingled pleasantly, along with other parts.

“I know I ran off the other night. My friends were going, and _ugh_ , Janelle is great and all, but sometimes she doesn’t get it. Anyway, would have done that at the party if she hadn’t been like, tapping her foot and about to ditch me.” She looked up again, long lashes sweeping and framing her brown eyes, and Henry floundered under another surge of thought-destroying butterflies.

“Oh. Well—I’m happy to hear that.” And so Lucas would be, he was quite sure, to know that she’d been interested in him long before this awkward excuse for a date.

Lucas, whom he was here on behalf of, taking liberties with the woman he cared for. He should say goodnight, he should—

Sabrina stood on her toes and pulled him in for another kiss, and Henry forgot what he’d been thinking.

Everything faded but the electric excitement as her lips pressed to his. It was just a kiss, he’d had plenty of those before and shouldn’t be losing his head over it—nor enjoying it quite this much. He still had to go home and look Lucas straight in the eye.

Unfortunately, Lucas was like an unfixed tomcat, and Henry was struggling.

Sabrina kissed like she talked: fast, enthusiastic, open and eager, and there was a very definite offer in the bite of his bottom lip and the forward press of her curvy body. She kissed like they were already having sex.

Now _there_ was a thought to occupy his blank, buzzing mind. And so it did, spreading like wildfire and lighting up all his nerve endings like a holiday display.

When was the last time he’d had sex? It felt like ages, absolutely ages. There’d been Molly, beautiful, confident Molly, and a very vividly memorable experience in his office. Before that… what was her name… Diana? Deanna? A woman he’d met at the opera in casual conversation during intermission, and the night had ended in a lovely liaison at her home. That was years and years ago now, back before meeting Jo, before…

Oh, _Jo_. Jo, with her beautiful eyes and hair that fell like rivers over her shoulders, whose smile woke long dormant parts of him and spurred him to foolish showboating and posturing, childishly pleased when she rolled her eyes and dragged him along on yet another adventure. Jo, who’d once come to tell him that the man romancing her wasn’t the one she wanted, that what, _who_ she wanted was…

Sabrina let him go with a gasp, and her cheeks were blushed red as her eyes glittered with excitement. Henry was drowning in the flood of hormones, trying to keep himself reasonable while Lucas’ body and instincts ran riot over his own self-control, and his own thoughts ricochetted around like pinballs.

He was better than this, surely? Canoodling on a street corner like teenagers seemed beyond him. He’d never been all that great at resisting a pretty face, but _this…_

“Want to come over?” Sabrina tugged on his collar, her finger inside and resting on his collarbone, and Henry shivered.

“Oh—oh,” he stuttered.

 _God, yes,_ was his first thought, but he bit the inside of his cheek and blinked hard.

“I should get home. Not that I don’t want to!” he added hastily when her expression fell into dismay. Oh, did he want to; despite all the thousands of terrible reasons he wasn’t going to, he still really, _really_ wanted to. The idea of athletic, enthusiastic sex was nearly all he could think about right now. “I have…work.”

“On a Sunday?”

“Like I said, it’s been an unusual week.” She looked crestfallen, and he leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. He kept it short, though he may have nuzzled her cheek a little before withdrawing, and counted it a personal victory. Her small _humph_ of amusement was enough to make his heart skip a merry beat. “Next time, I’ll be more myself, I promise.”

Sabrina smiled, then took his hands and squeezed them.

“Okay. Thanks, Lucas. Text me, we’ll figure out a time.”

“Yes.” He nodded a little more enthusiastically than was absolutely necessary. “Yes, goodnight. I’ll, er, text.” However texting happened, he was sure it was easy. People did it all the time. Lucas was a fan of it, and it was a safe bet he’d appreciate written communication over verbal, so that he could interact with his paramour himself instead of through this untenable proxy situation.

Sabrina backed up a few steps, her grin bright and sweet, and she turned with a last wink and a hop in her step, walking away with head held high. The bounce and sway of her gait truly was adorable; spritely, energetic, and lovely.

Was there any way to tell Lucas that he had a lot to look forward to in their next date without sounding incredibly lecherous and crass? Likely not.

Sabrina shot back another glance over her shoulder and caught him watching, and he raised his hand in an absent-minded wave, making her laugh before she disappeared around the corner.

Henry decided to walk home to give himself time to bring Lucas’ pent-up, youthful energy back under control, and figure out what best to say to Lucas. As he walked, his mood sank. He’d taken advantage of both Sabrina and Lucas’ trust.

While successful in achieving his goal, this endeavour felt very much like a failure.


	14. Chapter 14

Lucas was becoming one with the couch. Bless the couch, it was beautiful. Bless Abe, who’d made chocolate chip cookies while he was out getting his stash.

Lucas bit into another and groaned in appreciation through the mouthful.

“These are amazing,” he mumbled, and a few crumbs escaped him. “Oops. Sorry.”

“I wonder if Henry was like this when he was younger,” Abe said as he snickered at Lucas.

Hard to imagine Henry young, or as anything other than what he was right now, an ageless fixture. He’d been born into the world fully formed, springing forth like Athena, clutching a pocket watch, wearing a three-piece suit, and spouting a lecture on the most common causes of death.

“Hey, Abe—you’ve known Henry for a while, right?”

“Long time,” Abe said with a serious nod. “Feels like it’s been my whole life.”

“Was he always like this?”

“How’dya mean?”

“I dunno. Prickly. Remote. I’d take it personal that I can’t get anything out of him, but other than you, he doesn’t have any friends. I know he’s kinda got something with Jo, but it’s not the same, is it?”

“Henry used to be a little more…I wanna say normal, he’s never been that. But he used to be a little more connected.”

“Jo said Henry lost his wife.”

“Did she.” Abe rolled his head to look at Lucas and folded his arms. “You ask Henry about it?”

“Yeah, but we didn’t get a chance to talk about it much.” Lucas shifted on the sofa to better face Abe. “Which reminds me, I’m sorry about your mom. I wish we could have found out a happier ending.”

Abe went blank, like he hadn’t followed the change in topics, which—fair enough, Lucas was leaping from one death to another…oh. Maybe bringing up family deaths right now wasn’t so sensitive.

Lucas hastily stuffed a cookie in his mouth, speculating that if his mouth was full of food, he wouldn’t have room to put his foot in there.

Abe finally shrugged and looked up at the ceiling with a sigh.

“Me too. But having an ending is better than having none. We spent decades wondering what happened to her, why she ran out and never wrote. At least now we know.”

“Was your dad…um…” Lucas shut his mouth and chastised himself again. Even if Abe’s dad had been violent, it wasn’t really Lucas’ place to ask right now. Lucas picked up another cookie from the plate. At this rate, he was going to run out of cookies long before he ran out of unintentionally insensitive things to say.

Abe gave him a curious look, and then picked up on his meaning.

“What? No! My dad would never lift a hand against anyone. Not my mom, not me. And not like I didn’t give him plenty of reason,” Abe chuckled, cracking a smile, and then it faded. “But after she left, it was hard. I think it changed him. Maybe more than I realized. The last little while, he’s done stuff that I didn’t think he’d ever be capable of. But of all the things we thought could have happened to her, I never pictured this.”

Lucas frowned, not sure if they were talking about Abe’s dad, or Henry. He eyed the pipe on the coffee table. Maybe he’d taken one hit too many tonight if he was having this much trouble keeping track of things.

“So your dad’s still alive?” Lucas ventured.

Abe looked over at him in surprise. He stared at him for a long time, like he was looking through Lucas and seeing someone else. Lucas looked down at himself and remembered what it was that Abe saw—his friend Henry. Not Lucas at all.

“Yeah, Dad’s still kicking. Don’t think that guy’s ever going to quit.”

“Wow. He’s gotta be in his nineties at least, right?” Lucas said. “That’s a good long run.”

“Something like that.” Abe grabbed another cookie and shoved it in his mouth, munching with serious determination, but with about as much enjoyment as someone trying to scarf down a tire. That was a tragedy, given how good the cookies were.

He really liked Abe. Being with him was peaceful, like little bits of Henry’s leftover instincts were telling him that this was a hundred percent the guy to trust. There were lots of reasons he kept crashing here every night since this whole insane switch, but the sense of security he got from being near Abe was definitely part of it.

“Lucas, let me ask you something,” Abe said abruptly.

“Shoot.”

“You ever think about what it would be like to get old? Or—or I mean, how long you want to live?”

“Ooh, we’ve entered the existential portion of the night! Hell yeah, now we’re bonding.” He curled his hand into a fist and offered it to Abe for a bump. Abe didn’t catch on, so Lucas leaned over and grabbed one of his hands, shaped it into a fist and positioned Abe so that he held it in mid-air. He gave it a bump with an explosion noise and flared his fingers out. Abe’s bemusement was enough to set him giggling, which then set Abe laughing until he wheezed and coughed and wiped at watering eyes.

“Okay, no, no—serious questions, serious answers,” Lucas said, poising his fingers in a steeple and pressing them to his lips. “How long do I want to live… Hmm. What are the guidelines here? Do I get to stay healthy? Because if we’re talking twenty years with lingering illnesses, that’s going to change my answer.”

Abe shuffled in his seat. He muttered something to himself that Lucas didn’t catch, and then he shifted so he was forward on the couch, elbows on his knees, looking at Lucas intently.

“Let’s say you stayed this age.”

“Dude. That’s not getting old.”

“Whatever. You stay healthy, you don’t get old. What would you think?”

“Sounds like a pretty sweet deal. So I guess barring car accidents or disease or, like, falling Acme anvils, I literally get to choose how long I live.” Lucas pulled at his chin in thought. Wow, Henry’s beard was out of control. It was thick and luscious. Lucas meandered through a diversion into what Henry would look like with a full on manly-man beard down to his chest, and then back around to Abe’s question. “There’s so much I could do. Oh! You know the Museum of Television and Radio? I could move in there and watch their entire archives. I would know _everything_.”

Abe grinned at him, and his eyes twinkled with a boyish gleam. Lucas twitched with the urge to ruffle his hair or hug him. Lucas already liked the old guy, but this was one of Henry’s body’s instinctive urges. He couldn’t imagine Henry ruffling anyone’s hair. Or hugging. Well, there was that one time, but Henry had stood there with his hands in his pockets, soaking it up like he knew Lucas had hugs galore to give—which he did, a good hug should never be passed up—but there hadn’t been a whole lot of reciprocation.

“What else would you do?” Abe prodded. “We’re talking oodles of time here.”

“I’d have to get a little better at saving money,” Lucas said. “But I’d live long enough to pay off my student loan, so that’s a miracle right there. Then I could start that microbrewery in Brooklyn.”

“That’s the spirit,” Abe said.

“Hah! _Spirit_ ,” Lucas said, snickering at the pun. He held up his hand for a high five. “Up top, man.”

Abe clapped his hand against Lucas’ with an enthusiastic smack, and then squinted his eyes with sudden, intense scrutiny.

“What?” Lucas asked.

“Seeing Henry laugh, have fun, be… I dunno, irresponsible. It’s nice.”

Abe was looking past Lucas, right through him, until it was Henry he was smiling at with that affection and care. Lucas flinched back from the surge of warmth inside him that wasn’t him at all, but Henry, flooding right over him until he wasn’t sure he was really there at all.

Lucas was disappearing.

He shook his head hard and the room wobbled about in response. No, he was still in here. Wasn’t he?

Only Abe knew the truth about the two of them, and Abe stopped seeing Lucas and only saw Henry, what then? If nobody saw you, were you real anymore? Or do you cease to exist? He didn’t want to stop existing. Immortality sounded better than being exiled to nothingness.

“Uh, what about you?” Lucas said, changing the subject away from his downward-spiralling thoughts. “What would you do if you were immortal?”

“Me? Hm.” Abe settled into the couch cushions and crinkled his brow. “I hope it woulda hit before I turned seventy. I could do without the aches and pains. No matter what anyone says, getting old ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

“Not sure anyone thinks it’s that great,” Lucas said, but Abe was already deep into his musings.

“Travel more, because the only time I went to Asia was Vietnam, and wasn’t on a sight-seeing trip, if you know what I mean. And I never made it to Australia.” As he spoke, he ticked off his fingers. “Collect rare antiques—or keep stuff until it became rare antiques, then make a mint. Publish history textbooks. Scuba dive, because I never did get around to that, and it’s too late now—put sky diving and bungee jumping on that list too. Dust off my German, Dutch, French, and all that grammar Dad made me learn when I was younger….”

The list went on and on with hardly a breath in pause. Eventually Abe wound down, long after he’d run out of fingers, and probably toes too if he’d taken off his shoes.

“Guess you’ve thought about it before, then,” Lucas said.

Half the list had passed him by in a blur, but so much of it was ordinary stuff. Not boring; there were lots of adventurous ideas, but it was all stuff that was achievable. It was a little depressing to think that even with over seventy years under his belt, Abe had a bucket list a mile long of things he thought he’d never get to do.

“Well,” Abe said with a shrug and half a smile. “Lots of time to do whatever you want, right? Not _so_ bad.”

“Yep. And I suppose if I you get tired of it, you can just…” He made a gun out of his fingers and mimed a shot to the head.

Abe’s face fell, and Lucas winced. God, he had to remember not everyone had the sense of humour that came along with working with dead bodies every day.

“Sorry, man. Bad joke.”

“Nah, whatever.” Abe pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh. “Guess you’ve got a point. Always good to know there’s an end.”

Lucas wasn’t sure what he’d said to upset Abe, but he leaned forward and patted Abe on the shoulder, then gave it a reassuring squeeze. Abe looked up, and there was a vulnerable confusion in his expression.

“There’s times when… Damn it, just for a second, I think it’s Henry. Like you’re going to tell me everything’s back to normal.”

“But it’s me.” Lucas heart thrummed unpleasantly as he peered into Abe’s eyes, willing him to see past Henry’s face and really _see_. “It’s Lucas.”

“I know. Sorry, yeah.” Abe straightened up and shook his head with a deep breath. “I think they grow that stuff a little stronger than when I was a kid.”

Lucas relaxed. So long as Abe knew he was in here, that was enough to keep him sane until they figured it out and got back to normal.

“Hey, don’t worry about it.” He opened his arms and scooted towards Abe, finally giving in to the urge. “C’mere, big guy. No sad trips tonight, let’s hug it out.”

Abe squawked as Lucas caught him in a hug, and Lucas slapped him on the back and squeezed until Abe chuckled and hugged him in return.

“Thanks, Lucas.”

There was a loud, affronted huff behind them.

Henry stood in the doorway to the kitchen, hands on his hips and staring at the carnage of cookies, crumbs, empty wine bottles, weed bag, glass pipe and lighter they’d left scattered all over the living room table.

“What the devil have you two been up to?” Henry demanded.

“I learned a new word tonight, Henry,” Abe said, grinning, and he slung an arm around Lucas. “Y’ever heard of ‘crunk?’”

 

***

 

Lucas and Abe looked at each other and burst into juvenile snickering, leaning into each and clinging on like they were holding each other up.

“I can’t believe this. Abe, honestly. At your age?” Henry folded his arms, tired beyond belief.

“The Dad Look doesn’t work as well on Lucas’ face,” Abe chuckled.

“Abraham,” Henry prompted gently.

Abe caught his slip and straightened up. He dropped his arm from around Lucas, looking embarrassed and chastened.

“Sorry, Henry.“

Lucas didn’t notice the exchange, too busy untangling himself from Abe and lunging forward on the couch to sit on the edge of the cushions. In the untucked plain white undershirt with cookie crumbs on the front, the untended wild hair and beard framing bloodshot eyes, he looked as though he’d been locked in a room for a month and only just now set free into the world. Henry had lived rough many times over the years, and yet he was sure that even in those times, he’d made more effort with his appearance than Lucas was making.

That damned beard. First thing in the morning, the monstrosity would meet its end, if he had to tie Lucas down to do it.

“Abe found your favourite wine! And it’s my favourite wine too, because the tastebuds want what the tastebuds want!” Lucas grabbed a bottle from the table, then looked into it. “I’d offer you some, but we cleaned that up pretty quick. You want a hit?”

Abe covered his mouth and snickered again, and the cliff holding up Henry’s patience eroded a little more, threatening to crumble.

“No? Uh—cookie?” Lucas said hopefully. “They’re really good. Abe’s a wizard.”

Abe snorted as the laughter escaped him, and he punched Lucas in the arm and shushed him through giggles. To demonstrate his point, Lucas grabbed a cookie and shoved it into his mouth, and muttered something in a grotesque display that sent crumbs flying, and then he choked. Abe slapped him hard on the back.

The world faded into a haze of red. Henry had been out tolerating that torture chamber humanity dubbed a movie theatre, while attempting to be a gentleman in the body of a man for whom sexuality was an extreme sporting event rather than an elegant dance, all while the two of them had been sitting here smoking illegal substances and…and baking cookies? Giggling like school children, having their fun while Henry contorted himself to fit into the twisted shape of Lucas’ life?

“Okay, okay, but how’d the date go?” Lucas scrambled up to his knees on the couch. “Did she have fun? Did she like the flowers? How was the movie? Did they do that big ol’ cheesy voiceover ‘moral of the story’ business again? Oh man, that’s so goofy, but I love it.”

The barrage of questions washed over Henry in his own voice and precise accent. After hearing Lucas’ mushy words come out of his mouth all night, the sound of his lost voice was both a relief and a grating reminder that nothing was as it should be.

“Did Sabrina wear the fruity perfume again? It was like, orange? Grapefruit? Or…”

The tang of the perfume still lingered from where the insides of Sabrina’s wrists had brushed over Henry’s neck and chest, as she’d fondled his hair and collar, as she’d kissed him…

Henry shut his eyes to let the sparks of excitement run their course and fade away, but they were followed hard upon by guilt. Both settled in the pit of his stomach, uncomfortable companions that set him on edge.

“Passionfruit,” Henry said. Abe was giving him a concerned look when he opened his eyes, and Henry looked away. “I think I’ll turn in for the night.” Henry gave a short nod to both of them. “Goodnight.”

“Hey, wait! Is Sabrina going to see me again?” Lucas sat back on his heels and beckoned Henry closer. “Come on, how did it go?”

“It went well. She will text you to arrange another date in the future.”

“Hey, Lucas.“ Abe tugged at Lucas’ sleeve. “Maybe leave it for now.”

Lucas brushed Abe off without looking at him, instead intent on Henry, frowning now.

“But how was it? What did you—I mean, what did you guys talk about? Was she mad about the other dates?”

“I’m tired, Lucas. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.” Henry walked away, but Lucas climbed up over the back of the couch with a protest and chased after him.

“Henry? Henry, but…”

“What?” He was antsy with the pent up frustration and odd jumble of feelings rattling around in his chest, and he snapped the response with more force than was necessary. “Can’t this wait?”

“I’ve been waiting here all night! You gotta tell me something.”

“You seem to have adequately distracted yourself. I congratulate you on finding such efficient and expedient methods of relaxation.”

Lucas was weaving on his feet as he stared at Henry silently. Henry rolled his eyes. It was a waste of time; Henry would wager all subtlety was lost on Lucas at the moment.

Lucas leaned closer, eyes squinting up into a focused, pinpointed gaze, disturbingly intense and hawkish when painted on Henry’s features.

“Did you kiss her?”

“What?” Henry touched his mouth, where Lucas’ gaze was riveted.

“That’s lipstick. That’s totally lipstick.” Lucas poked him in the back of the hand when he pointed to Henry’s mouth. He looked up into Henry’s eyes, bewildered. “You _kissed_ her?”

“Well—yes!” Henry sputtered. “What did you expect of me? She kissed me, and I couldn’t very well reject her if she were to think I was interested.”

He had been interested, though. No— _Lucas_ had been interested, he’d only been along for the ride. Only, the line between those two things was confusing and blurry.

“ _She_ kissed _you_?” Lucas emphasized each word with a point of his hand between two spots in the air, as though attempting to map out the scenario.

“Yes, she did.” Henry hoped that would make Lucas feel a little better, but he was busy working his way through the facts and didn’t lose the narrow look of suspicion.

“So she liked you.”

“Yes! Wasn’t that the point?” Henry threw his hands up in the air in frustration. “Wasn’t that the point of this _entire_ _venture_ , that she would like me and then agree to another date?”

“No!” Lucas ran his hands through his hair, setting Henry’s curls at insane angles. “No, the point was that she’d like _me_ and want to see _me_ again!”

“Then you should have gone on the bloody date yourself!” Henry roared, and his head swam. “You have the constitution of a seventeen year old, Lucas! Do you walk around like this all the time? She kissed me, and I could hardly think! I still can’t! It’s intolerable!”

Lucas flapped his mouth open and closed a few times, and Henry stared at the deranged reflection of himself in the distorted mirror of unreality; drunk, high, speechless and blushing red, with unkempt beard and hair, clothing awry—

He couldn’t see himself in this stranger any longer. After two hundred and thirty-five years, Henry Morgan was being erased.

This wasn’t how he wanted to die.

“I won’t do this again, Lucas. I can’t. I can’t be you and live your life. It won’t work, it’s not right, it’s not—”

“Henry.”

Abe’s sombre tone halted him. He’d gotten to his feet, and he shook his head minutely. Henry let out his trapped breath in a rush, and with it the angry words that had been queuing up to follow. He was tired, and needed rest.

Henry turned from Lucas’ gape-mouthed silence, and didn’t look at Abe.

“I am going to bed.”

Neither Lucas nor Abe said anything to stop him, and Henry hurried to his room to shut the door on them both.


	15. Chapter 15

Lucas’ phone vibrated and resonated loudly on the coffee table top.

Without opening his eyes, Lucas groped around until his hand clasped it. He pried an eye open. One text message.

_had fun last night, hope work isn’t too bad today! -S_

There was a red-lipped kiss followed by three blushing emojis. Lucas rolled his face into his pillow with a groan.

He was barely awake, and if he was lucky he could go back to sleep and avoid this for a while longer. He didn’t want to think about it.

The phone buzzed again in his hand and he unburied his face to peer at it again.

_im free this friday if you are. Want to mst3k I and II? -S_

On the night he’d met Sabrina, they’d stood by the snack table at the party, blocking the garlic hummus long enough that people gave up on it. Lucas and Sabrina eventually ate the whole party-sized dip themselves, all while making each other laugh with lines from the first two movies. Her surprise-death face was incredible, and with the right lighting and background music, it’d be perfect—instead, she’d made him laugh so hard he couldn’t breathe.

He absolutely had to talk her into being in his 48-hour film fest entry. He’d planned to bring that up last night, in fact.

She was funny and clever and easy to talk to, and she’d put up with his first few horribly unfunny responses until he’d loosened up. For a minute he’d thought she was going to kiss him before the night was over, but then she didn’t, and he’d been thinking about it since and what it would be like…

And he’d completely put the possibility of kisses happening from his head when he’d told Henry he needed to go see her.

She kissed Henry—well, Henry pretending to be Lucas—but she hadn’t kissed Lucas when he was himself.

Henry was doing a better job at being Lucas than Lucas was.

Which didn’t matter, because Henry didn’t want Lucas’ life. Not like Lucas wanted Henry to take him over like he was completely replaceable, but it still hurt that he wouldn’t even try to keep it up. What would Lucas have once he got back to himself?

At this rate, they were going to be stuck like this forever, so not like _any_ of it mattered.

Lucas groaned again and pulled the blanket over his head. Maybe the couch would swallow him up and this hell would be over.

Abe had talked him into staying on the couch—again—and it was probably a good idea. Henry could pretend all he wanted that he wasn’t ‘constitutionally predisposed’ to hangovers, but Lucas had a churning stomach that said otherwise. In retrospect, the weed had been a poor choice.

Lucas flailed a hand to search under the couch for where he’d stashed his laptop yesterday. He squinted as the bright screen flared to life and pulled up the browser. Somewhere there had to be a torrent of the movie, and then he could at least pretend he’d seen it with Sabrina.

It didn’t take long to find and download a hand-cam version ripped from a theatre viewing. Once again, circadian rhythms had betrayed him and woke him up long before Henry and Abe, so he had plenty of time to get through the entire movie in all its shaky, pixellated glory.

As soon as it was done, Lucas grabbed his phone. He should have waited to ask Henry about the details before he talked to her, but Henry probably wouldn’t tell him anything useful anyway. And… he wanted to talk to Sabrina himself.

 _Gotta check my work schedule,_ he typed, with a bunch of frown emojis and a couple of poops thrown in for good measure. She seemed to believe the work excuse, so he’d stick with it.

_np whenever. -S_

The response was so terse his heart sunk a little. He bit his lip and shot off a quick text about the opening sequence of the movie, which had bucked the director’s dark-and-dirty trope and started with a bright sunlit shot instead. The movie was really good. God, he wished he’d been there.

Sabrina’s response was immediate and enthusiastic, and yeah—she was totally sharp, and they completely agreed on _everything_. He got sucked into a flurry of texts back and forth for a while, until he was grinning and had forgotten he was curled up like a dirtbag on Abe and Henry’s couch, stuck in the limbo of someone else’s body.

Noises down the hall indicated someone in the bathroom, and Lucas sighed. Great. Another day starting up.

 _gotta run, let u know about friday,_ he typed.

_k, later -S_

A string of rainbow hearts followed the message, which was more depressing that her emotionless two-word text from earlier. Was there any point to this? If he said yes and then had to cancel on her again, she was going to think he was a loser. Henry wasn’t going to go for him again—not that Lucas wanted him to, even though it had worked.

And if he did get back to normal and she saw him, the regular old Lucas Wahl might not cut it. Now she’d be expecting Lucas Plus instead of the boring old original formula.

Lucas flipped through the rest of his alerts. The missed call from his mom wasn’t going to get dealt with either, so he typed out a quick email with an apology for missing their phone date. He promised to catch up with her soon, and threw in some vague excuses about working a lot so she didn’t worry too much.

He could put off phone calls for a while, but eventually some holiday would roll around. Would he have to show up in Henry’s body and make up excuses about why Lucas wasn’t there? Knowing his mom, she’d sit him down and feed him anyway, because she was never going to pass up the chance to stuff potato salad or ham into anyone, even a random uninvited guest.

Would he ever sit at his family dinner table again, with his dad giving him a hard time about sitting up straight, and his brother kicking him under the table like he was still eleven instead of thirty-one, and his mom telling him he needed to eat better? Or was it going to be as a stranger, with formal table manners and eating off the nice dishes?

Lucas threw down the phone on the table next to him with a clatter and straightened his legs out on the couch. He expected to butt his feet up against the couch arm, but his whole body fit perfectly fine. Any other day, he would have been ecstatic to the point of Instagramming it and celebrating the factory that took into account 6’4” dudes who wanted to stretch out and laze it up on the couch.

He was too short, he was too light, he was the wrong shape and size. Every sensation was wrong; the cloth on his skin different, the air shifting hairs that were wrong, and he swore that Henry needed glasses, even though he insisted he didn’t and Lucas just had hypervision, like he was Superman or something.

He turned over and buried his face in the pillow and yanked the blanket back up. To hell with Henry’s body and its stupid morning wakeup call; he was going to go back to sleep if it killed him, because unconsciousness was the only reprieve he was going to get.

 

***

 

The living room was quiet when Henry left the bedroom, but it wasn’t empty; Lucas was an unmoving mass beneath the blanket and pillow. The scene was a common one now, the couch hosting both Henry and Lucas in turns. Though the addition of another person into their private space chafed, it was superseded by the relief at knowing where his body was and what Lucas was doing with it.

How had Glasser coped with being parted from her body? As far as they could tell, no one within her immediate circle had similar changes in behaviour patterns, so it had to be someone else not close by. Was that who she was communicating with on her other phone, using it as a constant lifeline to her body? If they knew where she’d been living they could search for the phone and other clues, but aside from the irregular hours she spent at her job, Geri Glasser had dropped off the face of the earth.

Henry had walked away from many a life with nothing but the clothes on his back, and if they were stuck like this he could do it again and make a new start. A new start with a new face.

Lucas, however…

Henry went downstairs to his laboratory and left Lucas to his rest.

Henry stopped on the way down to poke his head in to the shop where Abe was stationed at his desk working through his ledgers, calculating the monthly acquisitions and sales. The doors opened in a few hours, but for now it was quiet.

At the scuff of Henry’s feet, Abe peered over his glasses, but his attention was quickly stolen away when the phone rang. He picked up the receiver with one hand while he held up a finger to Henry with the other, indicating he’d only be a moment.

“Hello, Abe’s Antiques.” His gaze darted up to Henry again and he grimaced. “Hi there, Jo. Sorry, Henry’s out for the day. No, he didn’t say—can I pass on a message?”

Abe was so used to lying for Henry that his delivery was smooth even as he offered Henry his silent sympathies with his expression.

It was no different than any of the thousands of lies he and Abe had told over the years to hide the truth of their lives. They seamlessly shifted between private and public conversation, and covered for each other with lies that overlapped like interlocking tiles whenever too much was overheard. Abe grew up absorbing the talent from his parents, able to prevaricate with such ease that Henry nearly felt guilty for teaching his son such a dubious life skill—or would have, if Abe’s talents hadn’t saved him in a thousand ways over the years.

It was no different, but Henry’s stomach turned as Abe dutifully made excuses for Henry to Jo. Every lie was a breach of trust, another crack in his promise to her that he would be honest and truthful.

Henry left the shop and went down the last flight of stairs to his laboratory, unable to listen any longer.

He threw himself into his chair and nearly overbalanced, flapping his arms to catch himself before he tipped, and then he swore loudly and roundly, slamming his fist on the table in childish impatience over his clumsiness.

“Uh-oh. I know it’s serious if you’re busting out the German curse words,” Abe said as he came down the stairs.

“They have such satisfying, vulgar depth, for when one needs a very good lambasting of life,” Henry quipped. Abe raised an eyebrow, unwilling to let him brush it off so easily, so he switched to a better tactic. “What did Jo want?”

“She asked if you were okay.” Abe grabbed a chair and sat opposite him at the desk.

“What did you tell her?”

“That Lucas was getting on your nerves,” Abe said with a short laugh. “But I also told her that you needed some time to adjust to life with someone else knowing about you.”

“That is not untrue, I suppose.” Nor the whole truth—yet another skill his son had learned from his parents.

“She asked if there was anything she should do. I said be patient, it’d sort itself out.”

He hoped so, because he had no idea how she’d take another discovery that shattered her view of what was possible. He was barely handling it himself, and he’d spent lifetimes getting used to the fact that the world held unpleasant surprises in store. No, if this didn’t resolve, then it was the end of his association with Jo, and the rest of his life here.

“She also wanted to know if you told Lucas about your immortality. I said no. Which leads me to another conversation.” Abe scuffed his foot on the floor and visibly braced himself. “It’s time you did. If you guys are stuck like this, he has a right to know.”

“There’s no guarantees that he’s immortal. Lucas’ body may cease to age so long as I inhabit it. Only time will tell.”

“Maybe, but he should to know.”

“We might go back to ourselves, and then it would be irrelevant.”

“Like it’s irrelevant to tell Jo what’s going on, even though you’ve already told her all the hard stuff?”

Abe’s way of cutting straight to the heart of whatever Henry wished to avoid was terribly annoying at times. He rocked back in his chair and crossed his arms.

“We’ll wait and see. If nothing changes, then…” he looked away from Abe’s disapproving frown, which made it easier to deliver the lie. “Then I’ll consider it.”

Abe shook his head with a defeated sigh and left him to his brooding. He returned to the shop, and his chair scraped the floorboards above Henry’s head as he settled in to work once again.

Henry pulled his most recent journal from his desk drawer and cracked it open. Begun in 2011 at the commencement of his work at the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner, it was already three-quarters full of observations and details on his deaths, his research, and whatever snippets of interest he could find. He flipped through the diagrams and detailed notes, but there was nothing of help. He’d never encountered this, and none of his lifelong research helped.

He could kill Lucas’ body in thousands of ways, but he couldn’t leave it.

Unless he truly died in the attempt…

He blinked as the journal page blurred, and he closed it on the waiting blank page, ready for the next experiment, or the next cataloguing of his death. A death in Lucas’ body might well go undocumented afterwards.

Henry tucked the journal away once more and headed upstairs. He’d lost an hour to useless reverie, and coffee was in order.

Lucas was in the kitchen when Henry arrived upstairs, and Henry nearly turned around to go back down. However, avoiding him was juvenile, and he owed Lucas the withheld information on the evening with Sabrina.

Lucas was staring at a spot on the counter without seeing it and didn’t notice Henry’s approach. He hadn’t changed from the night before, the clothing wrinkled from being slept in, hair and beard unkempt.

“Lucas?”

Lucas blinked and looked up. Hollow emptiness met him.

Henry had looked at his own face like this many times over the years, in low points where there was nothing left for him, but with no reprieve to come. Colourless, hopeless, relentless life. It wasn’t fatigue that curved his back and wrapped Lucas in fog—it was defeat. He had tumbled over the precipice that Henry himself had stood on many times; indeed, stood on now.

Lucas sucked in a deep breath and a little spirit returned. He smiled and pick up the glass of juice he’d been in the midst of fetching.

“Slept in. Getting a late start.” Between the avoidant body language and the gaunt exhaustion, Henry suspected it was a lie. “I’ll get going and clear out of your space.”

“You don’t have to. You’re welcome to stay.” It was half out of concern for Lucas, and half to cater to his own desire to stay near his errant body. “It might be simpler. And…more comfortable.”

Lucas blinked slowly again, as though slowed down in a video.

“Thanks. That’d be cool.”

Lucas took a drink of juice and then absentmindedly scratched at his chin, fingernails rasping in the irregular beard. Henry searched for a tactful way to approach the issue, but opted for a direct offer.

“If you like, I could shave you—me. The, er,” he gestured towards the unruly facial hair. “I know the contours of my own face well enough—I’m sure it would be easier if I did it, even from an external viewpoint.”

“Sure. It’s getting a little mountain man, I could probably use it.” His smile was a little more sincere. “It’ll be like the spa.”

“Excellent. Come on,” Henry chuckled, glad to see the slight spark of Lucas’ good humour. He added, as casually as possible, “I can tell you about the date while we do it.”

“Sure.” Lucas downed the last of the juice and set the glass down.

Henry opted to let the coffee wait for later. Both of them needed to get this over with.

Lucas sat on the closed toilet lid and settled in. He raised an eyebrow at the shaving lather, brush, and straight razor, but pronounced it ‘cool.’

“The movie was…unique,” Henry said. “Though I’m afraid I can’t offer much in the way of critical review.”

“S’ok, I found a ripped copy online. I watched it this morning.”

Lucas didn’t notice the tacit admission that he’d lied about sleeping in, and Henry didn’t bring it to his attention, only hummed an acknowledgement as he stirred up the lather with the shaving brush.

“Good. I’m glad you won’t have to rely on my interpretation to chat with Sabrina about it in the future.”

“We already talked about it.”

Henry paused with the brush in mid-air.

“You spoke to Sabrina?”

“Texted. She texted to say…” Lucas looked away and down. “She had a good time.”

“I see.”

Henry worked the lather into the beard with professional and precise movements, but as he neared the end of the task he lingered a little longer than necessary. The shape of his jaw, the texture of his facial hair, and the elasticity of his skin were all his. It was like touching a body part numbed by anesthetic—part of him, but insensate. Lucas closed his eyes and bore the touch with a faint sigh.

“She wants to see me again.”

Lucas spoke, and the vibrations of the words travelled into Henry’s fingertips, tempting him to put his hands to his neck and demand Lucas speak so he could feel the voice he missed controlling himself. Instead, he forced himself to step back and rinse his hands—Lucas’ hands—in the sink to wash away the shaving lather. Henry picked up the straight razor and patted the counter.

“Sit here, it’ll be easier.”

Lucas obeyed him and hopped up on the counter, which put his head at eye-level. The steady, tired gaze was unnerving—Henry’s reflection come to life, eyes filled with accusation, with hurt, with surrender. He put a finger under his chin and tilted it to take the first pass along his throat. Lucas kept his gaze on Henry’s face.

Henry focused intently on the razor passing over skin he’d shaved for hundreds of years; he was hovering above himself, the job turned inside-out, but it remained a familiar, soothing task. The scraping sound of the razor over skin that gave in a predictable way, so much simpler than trying to negotiate unfamiliar textures and terrain when shaving Lucas’ face, lulled him into a rhythm.

“I said I’d let her know. About seeing her again.”

Lucas’ words cut through his concentration. His voice coming from outside himself jarred him so completely that he had to lift the razor off his skin to avoid nicking Lucas. He rinsed the razor beneath the stream of water from the tap, shook it off, and lined up for another stroke.

“That’s wise for now.”

Henry shifted his position, wedging between his knees to get the angle he needed as Lucas pliantly let Henry manhandle him into position. When Lucas was silent and passive, it was so easy to forget that Henry wasn’t caring for the empty shell of himself, but that someone else was at the receiving end of these attentions.

Lucas obediently flattened his upper lip as Henry moved to shave it, and the illusion was ruined—he did it wrong, pulling a long face rather than wrapping his lip over the edge of his teeth.  Henry worked along the lip with careful scrapes, and fortunately did not cut himself.

Lucas.  Did not cut _Lucas_.

He judged his work carefully, finished the few spots he’d missed, then wiped off any leftover shaving cream.  He put his hands over the freshly shorn skin as was his usual routine, stroking along jaw and throat to check he hadn’t missed anything.  Oh, how he missed his body.  His one constant, the single thing he could rely on to never change—how could Fate be so cruel as to take that away from him?

Would that be the price he’d have to pay for regaining mortality?  Or would it be crueler yet and make him start again, learn a new form while watching his own body finally age and die without him?

“I’m never going to see her again, am I?” Lucas said.

He met Lucas’ heavy gaze as he held his face in his hands. He forced himself to release Lucas, to cease the intimate invasion.  He couldn’t back away, however.

“I’m sure you’ll get the chance soon.”

“You really believe that?”

The question pried open and released the fear that had been circling since the beginning. Henry’s pulse raced, thrumming loud and fast, but he nodded nonetheless.

“Yes, I do,” he lied.

Lucas gave a disbelieving snort and he shook his head.

“I don’t know why I’m bothering.  I don’t even know if we click. I didn’t spend an evening with her.”

“Your intuition was correct. She seems very compatible with you.”

“Me? Or you?”

“Lucas, she was there because of you. I was a poor substitute.”

“Not _that_ bad. She kissed you.”

Henry put his hands on Lucas’ shoulders, holding the familiar rounded shape of them firmly.  He needed to lift Lucas’ spirits, but he didn’t know how.  He smiled, trying to levity.

“To be frank, the date was nearly a disaster.  I, Henry, was not the ideal cinema companion.  I did my best, but ultimately it wasn’t until I tried to speak as you do, with your honesty and forthrightness, with the passion with which you spoke of her, did she feel comfortable enough to…  well, show her enthusiasm for how much she enjoyed your company.”

“You mean she kissed you.”

“Yes, she kissed me.  That’s all, it was just a simple kiss, no more.”  He tightened his grip and shook Lucas lightly, dipping his head closer to emphasize his point, to drive the words through to Lucas hiding behind Henry’s eyes.  “She wasn’t kissing me, she was kissing you.”

“Yeah, but who did she get a kiss _from_? Me, or you? I wasn’t in charge of my mouth.  Kissing is different with everyone.” His eyes were focused on Henry’s mouth.

Henry wet his lips, uncertain how to answer.  There were so many odd leftover reflexes and habits from Lucas’ tenure in his body that Henry was forced to deal with.  Had the base attraction superseded his own reactions—had he kissed her as Lucas would?  He hadn’t felt very in control of the interaction, and maybe that was why.

“I totally don’t do that.”

“What?” Henry asked.

Lucas moved to touch his mouth, fingers stopping an inch short, and he stared with a puzzled frown.

“The—the licking the lips. _You_ do that, that’s a Henry thing. Did you do that before you kissed her?  Would my lips have been dry, or would I have done it too?”  Lucas was muttering, almost to himself.  “Am I good at kissing? I think I’m okay, I’ve never had any complaints.”

“Lucas,” he said quietly.

“What if she liked kissing _you_?  Is she going to expect moves I don’t have?”

“Lucas—”

Lucas’ fingers pressed against Henry’s lips, silencing him.   Henry had taken his liberties with Lucas, ignoring the person within in his desperation to touch his own body; dressing, shaving, controlling what he could when so much was outside his control. Now, Lucas was doing the same, moving his fingers across his lips as though re-familiarizing himself with lost territory.

“What’s it like to kiss me?”

The longer Lucas stared at his mouth, as his obsessive rambling spiralled around and around…  Should Henry let Lucas take whatever he needed and bear it?  Did he owe Lucas this—this whatever it was, for taking what had been Lucas’?

Henry swallowed down his unease and let his hands fall away from Lucas’ shoulders, palms flat to the counter on either side, no longer shielding himself.

“Lucas…”  The pressure on his mouth eased, the hand moved to his jaw.  “Lucas, what do you want?”

“I want to be myself,” Lucas breathed. In a swift move, he took hold of Henry by the sides of his head, jarring his equilibrium. Henry jerked in surprise, but Lucas held him firm, his gaze turned fierce with sudden desperation. “I want to be _me_!”

“Lucas, easy,” Henry said, taking hold of Lucas by the wrists to steady him so he didn’t rattle Henry’s head again.  “Take a deep breath.”

“I’m never going to see her,” Lucas said, words flying on shaking breath.  “I’m never going to see anyone.  Even if you did live my life for me, it wouldn’t be me.  I’m never to talk to anyone ever again.”

Henry winced as Lucas’ fingers dug into his muscles, as though he were trying to sink into his own body and rip Henry free of it. Henry didn’t fight him, just shushed him gently.

“Lucas, it’s okay. It will be alright.”

“Henry, I think I’m losing it.”  A process Henry knew intimately from the inside was being displayed on the outside as Lucas gasped for breath and his eyes tinged with red as he tried to hold back tears. “I just—I don’t know what to do. I need this to be over.” Lucas hands slid from his face, grasping at his neck, his collar, finally clenching the front of his shirt and twisting. He gave Henry a solid shake in his stolen body, teeth clenched tight and control slipping. “I need to be myself.”

Henry gently coaxed Lucas to let go and pulled Lucas into a firm hug. Lucas bowed his head forward, pressed his face into Henry’s shoulder with a keening noise and wrapped his arms around him in return, holding as securely as he could. Henry held him like a clinging child, nearly bearing all his weight. Henry put a hand to the back of his head, his fingers settling over the familiar curls that Lucas couldn’t manage, and stroked like he’d done so often for Abe when he was young, calming nightmares and soothing away all the injustices of childhood. Lucas wasn’t a child, but this was more than a young man should have to bear.  More than _anyone_ should have to bear.

Henry rubbed Lucas’ back and closed his eyes. He cradled Lucas against a torso too long, wrapped in arms with too far a reach, as he soaked in the smell, sound, and feel of his lost body.

“How are you doing this,” Lucas said, muffled. He was rigid in Henry’s arms, nearly suffocating Henry with his tight, iron hold. “How are you so okay with this?”

He had no answer for Lucas that would be of any help. Life was dealing with what you were saddled with and finding a way to survive. Henry had hit the bottom and bounced back enough times to know that the only way was through. Whether you would be the same man by the time you were through… That was another matter.

Lucas relaxed his arms and Henry gave Lucas a last pat on the back before releasing him. He gave Lucas room to slide down off the counter, and Lucas reached for the toilet paper to pull off a few squares and dry his eyes and running nose.

“We’ll get through this, Lucas. Have faith.” Henry needed him to believe so that Henry could believe, and his words held a conviction he didn’t feel.

Lucas nodded, but the slump of his shoulders was not encouraging.

“Yeah. Thanks, Henry.” Lucas left the bathroom and disappeared down the hall.

When Henry turned to tidy up his shaving kit, he met the foreign reflection—Lucas’ face, twisted up in worry and fear, hovering on the same edge of panic and despair. Henry looked away quickly.

He was growing to hate mirrors.


	16. Chapter 16

“Hey, man! You’re in early.”

Henry jerked back in surprise.  A security guard at the entrance to the precinct stepped nearly in front of him and held up a hand flat, as though directing him to halt.

“It’s going to be a busy week,” Henry hedged, and darted a glance to the man’s name badge. “Sasha,” he added, given that he seemed to have a personal relationship with Lucas.

Sasha frowned in puzzlement, then after a moment looked at his own upraised hand and lowered it. A second too late, Henry figured out that the gesture had been a request for a high five. He and Lucas appeared to have a ritual morning greeting, and Henry had botched it.

“Doing okay, Lucas?”

“Yes. Long weekend. You know how it is.” Henry shrugged and resettled his bag on his shoulder, giving the man an easy smile.

“I hear ya, man. Mondays, right?” Sasha chuckled and nodded. “Take ‘er easy.”

“Thanks.” Henry dodged past Sasha and continued on to the morgue.

Henry maintained polite civility with those he saw on a daily basis, but Lucas engaged with everyone around him. Outside the building, one of the night shift staff had waylaid him to discuss some television program he’d recently caught up on, and Henry had been forced to make up some excuse about being late to escape him. Now, the security guard. How many more stops would there be along the way? Hands deep in his jacket pockets, Henry turned the pocket watch over and over again, worrying at the cover. His failure to emulate Lucas’ attitude, along with the gaps in his social knowledge, was drawing attention when he could least afford it.

However, his thwarted instinct to blend in was only part of it; each interaction was a reminder of what Lucas would lose if they couldn’t switch back and Henry abandoned Lucas’ life. He wished he could cling to Lucas’ mortality, if not Lucas’ body, but the cost would be so high for the young man.

But if it wasn’t a choice, if they were forced into it… Henry couldn’t be to blame for a situation beyond his control, could he?

Henry knocked a shoulder into the wall with a clumsy bump as he took a corner too tight, forgetting his new stature and size. It jogged the memory of his misery, and he once again fought down the nagging, selfish thoughts that seemed to grow with each passing day. Much as he wished for it, there were no guarantees that his immortality had been left behind. It could dog him even in Lucas’ body, and if that were his new reality, he might well go mad.

Henry set himself up at Lucas’ usual workstation with tight smiles to those coworkers who greeted him for the start of the day. He longed to go hide behind his desk in his office, but the dance of excuses he would have to make in order to justify that move were not worth the reward. In the drawer at the bench he found Lucas’ music device and headphones, and in a moment of inspiration he tucked it in his pocket and put the earphones in. He didn’t turn it on—not that he would have been able to without a great deal of trial and error—and took advantage of the visual do-not-disturb sign this hung around his neck.

New files from the weekend sat stacked on top of Glasser’s open case file, and he flipped through them automatically. He wanted to have another look at Glasser’s brain samples and see if there were any clues they’d missed, and at the tests taken on her clothes and shoes to see if they could determine other places she’d been. However, reviewing the weekend’s files was a comfortingly normal part of his Monday routine, and he settled into it easily.

The single violent death in the bunch, a suspected gang shooting and therefore a murder case, was assigned to a Detective Planidin. Not one of Jo’s cases. He’d be spared trying to investigate yet another case with her, for now.

Or, more accurately, watching Lucas investigate another case with her.

It was time for both Lucas and Henry to take a leave of absence, before their work and social lives caught up with them, but Jo and Hanson’s investigation was their best avenue towards discovering who Geri Glasser had been switched with. Before today was over, he would have to drag Lucas up to talk to Jo and Hanson so they could get an update, find out if there was information on where she’d lived, who she’d associated with—

A tap on his shoulder.

Henry twisted around to find Jo standing behind him, as though his thoughts had summoned her.

Jo silently pointed to her ears. He frowned in confusion and she pointed again, then she reached out to him and plucked at the earphone cords to tug them free of his ears. He took them from her when she handed them over with a raised eyebrow.

“Must be good music.”

Nice as it was to see Jo—and he had missed her—this was a depressing reminder of the hole widening beneath him.

“What’s up, Detective?” Between the lackadaisical posture and the imitation of Lucas’ modern slang, he felt like a vaudeville performer.

“I wanted to talk to Henry. I called Abe, but he said Henry had already left for the day. Is he in?”

“Not yet,” Henry said. The last thing he wanted was Jo speaking to Lucas, but it was inevitable they would have to in the course of work. So long as he was there to supervise, no harm would come of it. Reluctantly he added, “But I assume he’ll be in soon.”

Yesterday, Lucas had packed up a change of clothing and left for his own apartment with barely a word said to either Henry or Abe other than a promise to see Henry at the morgue in the morning. Despite his reservations, Henry had let him go, and spent most of the night tossing and turning, haunted by the image of Lucas a hundred years in the future standing over Henry’s grave, wearing Henry’s face. He hoped Lucas had fared a better night.

Jo considered the entranceway to the morgue, thoughts already elsewhere than this conversation. His invisibility was surprisingly painful. He wiped his hands over his face and wished that it was his own features beneath his palms.

“You doing okay, Lucas? Your place fixed up yet?”

“My place?” She cocked her head curiously, and he caught on. “Ah, my apartment. No, not yet.”

“So you’re still at Henry’s?”

“For now. Not too much longer, hopefully.” He lifted his hand with his fingers crossed to give it some humour.

“Guess you’ve had too many wild late-night pyjama parties with Henry and Abe,” she said. “You look wiped out.”

As she spoke to him as she would Lucas, the reality of his new relationship with Jo asserted itself. To her he was a colleague, an acquaintance at best. The longer this pretense went on, the more lies to add to the list. It would be easier to believe there was no harm in it if he could see an end. If it were a blip, an anomaly, he could move on and forget it. But if nothing changed…

As Lucas had said in his distress: even if they continued to live each others’ lives, they would both lose everything they had.

He mustered a weak smile and chuckled at her joke, but Jo didn’t laugh with him. She shifted her weight to half-sit on the bench facing him, her expression gone serious.

“Look, Lucas, I overlooked the pugio thing because it worked out, but if there’s anything else you should tell me, I need you to. Henry’s been…lacking perspective lately. I don’t want him—or _you_ —to do anything that can’t be taken back. Do you know what I’m saying?” She leaned close, peering into his eyes.

Henry wet his lips while he thought through how Lucas would respond to this. It was easier to turn it into an academic exercise than to acknowledge her genuine concern. He couldn’t blame her for it—he’d broken laws, abused her trust, and she’d still forgiven him. She would leap to no good conclusions if she thought he was acting strangely now.

“It’s fine, Jo. Everything’s back to normal.”

“Normal? That is not how I’d describe it.” She folded her arms and frowned at him. “What’s been going on?”

_Tell her._

His conscience had Abe’s voice. Abe would no doubt be very smug about that.

Henry looked around the morgue at the people working around them, at their public location, then back to her. It was tempting. She hadn’t outright rejected his immortality, even thought she’d only made very tentative peace with it. She’d always been ready to listen, she’d only been waiting for him to start talking. She waited now, and yet he couldn’t make himself speak.

He despised his own cowardice sometimes.

“—Got a hit off the insurance company. Five appointments in the last two months. I don’t care how good your insurance is, that’s getting pricey for a flight instructor’s salary.” Detective Hanson’s voice rang through the morgue.

The doors to the morgue swung open on the in-progress conversation, drawing Jo’s attention away from Henry, and he was given a reprieve from finding an answer.

Hanson was expounding on the case details to Lucas walking beside him. Lucas had adopted an expression of polite interest, and was nodding with exaggerated understanding as the two of them made their way to Jo and Henry.

“Filling in the Doc—the dentist mention paid off.” Hanson strolled up and handed a slip of paper to Jo. “Figured I’d find you down here. Got the call back from her insurance company right after you left.”

Lucas stopped in front of them, and Henry was struck with the dizzy effect once more of facing his divergent reflection. Only a half day since Henry had seen his own body, and yet he wanted to leap out and grab hold, like Peter Pan hunting down his errant shadow.

Despite having Henry’s wardrobe and proper facial hair, everything was slightly off about Lucas’ masquerade. His hair was a little wild, his collar awry, the tie knot a lopsided half-windsor sitting at a cock-eyed angle. The blue silk scarf hung unevenly, and somehow Lucas had managed to make even the overcoat sit wrong. The drawn, hollow-eyed exhaustion was the capper, making the facial hair that had grown in overnight to a proper length look like a neglected five o’clock shadow rather than a purposeful choice.

“Late night?” Jo asked.

“Something like that,” Lucas said, and offered her a wan smile.

Jo shot Henry a sideways glance as she tapped her fingers on the scrap of paper, then she read the note.

“Dunsmuir Dental,” Jo said, thoughtful. “It’s a Manhattan practice.”

“Yep. Finally got something that connects her to the city,” Hanson said with a victorious lift of his chin.

“You don’t need to go to a ritzy place in Midtown to get your teeth whitened, you can do that anywhere. So why here?” Jo mused.

“I called the office. They said they saw her five times in the past six weeks.” Hanson shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “That’s a pretty serious commitment to dental health.”

“Or she had some major work going on. Did you see anything like that in her autopsy?”

She addressed the question to Lucas, who wasn’t expecting it. He blinked a few times and shook his head.

“Uh, no. No, nothing like that.”

“Hm. Well, must have been something.” Jo waited, but Lucas couldn’t seem to decide on what he was supposed to say, and she nodded as though that was enough of an answer. She tapped Hanson on the arm as she passed him. “Okay, let’s check it out, see what we can find.”

The two detectives headed for the exit, already falling into conversation. Henry leapt from his chair to lean close to Lucas.

“We have to go with them. We need to find more people who were in contact with Glasser in order to find who she switched with. Come on.” He hooked his hand in Lucas’ elbow, but Lucas resisted him.

“I—I…” Lucas shook his head shortly, whispering low and fast. “I don’t know if I can. I’ve gotta talk to you, I—“

“Can it wait?” Henry restrained himself from fixing the collar and tie, but he tugged at the lopsided scarf to straighten it out. “We have to go with them, or we—oh, damn it!” Jo and Hanson were already to the morgue door. “Fine, wait here,” he hissed to Lucas, then called out. “Wait! Detective Hanson, Detective Martinez?”

They both turned back towards him as Henry jogged after them.

“Yeah, Lucas?” Hanson held the door propped open.

“Could I tag along?” Henry asked. He gestured back towards Lucas. “Henry has me hooked on investigation. I thought I could, er,” he made an aimless gesture with his hands, somewhere between mixing a salad and conducting an orchestra—definitely one of Lucas’ tics. His nerves were getting the better of him. “Get in there and help.”

“Just you?” Hanson’s lopsided smile was bemused. “So what, the student has become the master now?”

Hanson looked over towards Lucas, who still hovered near the bench. Lucas’ pained expression had twisted Henry’s features into anxious misery, and Henry’s stomach tightened unpleasantly with guilt.

Later; he would deal with it later. For now, he needed to know everything about Glasser. He didn’t want to leave Lucas behind when he was in such obvious distress, but he couldn’t pass up this opportunity.

“I don’t think Henry—“ he started, but abruptly Lucas cut him off.

“No, I’d like to come, too,” Lucas said. He walked over to them, though he was anything but enthusiastic. “Geri Glasser’s dental records might be able to…to tell us what she’s been eating over the last few months.”

“What, really? You can do that?” Jo blinked at him.

“Sure. Stains and patterns of plaque buildup are reflective of eating habits.” Henry quickly leapt in to shore up Lucas’ blatantly nonsense answer. “With a better understanding of her habits, we could retrace her steps.”

“Or they might have a contact address for her,” Hanson said dryly. “And we could find out where she lives. That might be a little easier than tracking her plaque buildup.”

“Er, yes. That too,” Henry agreed.

“Okay, whatever,” Jo sighed. “Come on, let’s go.”

Henry patted Lucas on the back as they followed the detectives in hopes it would reassure him, but Lucas didn’t respond. He would get Lucas alone to speak with him as soon as possible, but pursuing a lead on Glasser’s trail couldn’t be put off. While Jo and Hanson looked for her murderer, Lucas and Henry could find the other person Geri had been switched with.

Or, possibly find Geri Glasser herself.

Oh, he really, _really_ hoped not.

 

***

 

Dunsmuir Dental was a well-established upscale dental practice specializing in cosmetic dentistry in Murray Hill on the third floor of a high rise. From the rich Persian carpets to art in frames too ornate to be wrapped around anything other than something made by a famous person, the waiting room smelled like money.

As soon as they entered, all heads in the office rubbernecked around to stare at them. Hanson tweaked at his loose tie and open collar, while Jo held her head high and walked in like she owned the place despite the curious and borderline rude gawking.

Lucas would give Henry credit, he’d put on one of those swanky shirts he’d bought, but he’d managed to keep to high tech company business casual, with jeans and sneakers. He’d half expected to show up and find Henry having dressed his body up in a three-piece tailored suit.

Only Lucas, wearing the outfit he’d taken home with him after slinking away from Henry’s place yesterday, even remotely fit in with the high-brow crowd this place catered to. Or would have, if he could wear it with any conviction. He didn’t know how, but Henry’s clothes had ceased to fit Henry’s body, and nothing looked quite right.

He tugged at the tie knot resting against his throat. It was hard to breathe with this noose around his neck.

“Detective Jo Martinez, NYPD.” Jo flashed her badge to the receptionist behind the desk. “We have some questions about a former patient of yours.”

As the receptionist scurried away in a flurry of confusion over why a four-person squad from the NYPD would have business with their dental practice, Henry hung back with Lucas near a fancy carved table with a large jade carving atop it.

“Abe would be positively drooling over this place,” Henry said. “An American Federal mahogany candle stand table, matching 18th Century French throne chairs—all excellent condition. It’s impressive. Whoever put together this collection, it was a labour of love.”

Lucas ran a finger over the table next to him. It was nice, but it was only a table.

No, Lucas was Henry Morgan—antique tables turned his crank, or something. He was supposed to like this, supposed to care about when it was built, know all the political details of the era, the last name of the guy who did the sanding and finishing in the region where this table was made. But he didn’t know any of that, did he?

He swallowed past the knot at his throat, clawing at it again to keep himself from suffocating.

“Lucas?”

An antique mirror hung above the desk, one of those accent pieces that make the room look bigger, and he met his own eyes in the reflection.

Henry stood next to Lucas. The collared shirt and v-neck pullover sweater made him look a little douchey. When had he gotten this sweater? Lucas raised a hand to feel the knit material, and in the mirror, Henry lifted his hand and put it on his tie and vest. Silk, wool, and smooth cotton were beneath his fingertips.

No—no, that wasn’t right, his hand wasn’t—

_—Henry stared at him from the mirror, refusing to go no matter how much Lucas cursed him, Henry’s mouth snarling in response with every word from Lucas, until he grabbed the mirror and smashed it on the bathroom floor, silver shards flying everywhere—_

Lucas blinked, and the mirror was whole again, the dental practice waiting room reflected in the background behind them. He wasn’t looking himself in the eye anymore—Henry had turned towards him, and Lucas could see his profile as he stared at Henry—Lucas—he…

“I don’t know who I am anymore,” he choked out in a whisper.

A strong hand gripped his bicep and dragged him over to a trio of chairs on one side of the waiting room. He dropped into one and Henry sat next to him, leaning over to speak quietly so that the nosy elderly woman peering over the magazine in their direction couldn’t overhear. Hanson and Jo were busy speaking with the receptionist, who had returned with a middle-aged man dressed in purple scrubs, and had their backs to them as Lucas gasped for breath.

“Your name is Lucas Wahl,” his own voice whispered in his ear. “You’re thirty-one years old, you live in New York, and you work for the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner. You are a good man, and you are _yourself_ —not Henry Morgan, not anyone else, you are _Lucas Wahl_. Do you understand me? No matter what you see, _you_ _are Lucas._ ”

“Does that matter if no one else knows?” Lucas twisted in his chair to look at his own brown eyes, the ones hiding Henry’s soul.

His mouth pinched in concern as he glanced at the detectives, then back.

“It’s not easy, but you _must_ validate your own existence. No matter what happens, you must believe in yourself, Lucas. If you don’t, you’ll go mad.”

The conviction in his voice was frightening, all the more so because Lucas was sure he was halfway there already. More than half. Maybe three-quarters.

However, the mists were clearing, and Lucas was able to take a long and steady breath.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Lucas said. “I was…I was going to stay home, but I wanted to…”

It sounded stupid. _I wanted to see you_ , like he was delivering bad lovesick poetry to Henry. But it wasn’t Henry he needed to see—it was himself. He’d been starting to forget what he looked like. He’d stared at selfies on his Instagram, trying to make his expression into the ones captured in stills, but it didn’t work. He’d been filled with so much fear—that’s when the mirror bought it.

“I understand. I felt much the same. It’s difficult being parted from yourself.”

Across the room Jo glanced over at them, and her brows came together in concern. Lucas managed an unconvincing smile. The conversation with the staff quickly pulled her back in, but she darted a last look at them before taking the offered hand of the new arrival.

“Hi, Doctor Theo Bregoli, I’m one of the dental surgeons here,” Lucas heard him say. His black hair covered by a purple skull cap that matched his scrubs, and a surgical mask hung around his neck. He had a gleaming white smile, more like a salesman than a dentist. “How can I help you?”

“We’re hoping to talk to you about a client of yours, Geri Glasser.”

Bregoli glanced around the waiting room to Lucas and Henry, and to the three clients flipping through magazines, silently obvious in their eavesdropping. He gestured towards the inner door past the reception area.

“Why don’t you come in? We can talk in Dr. Dunsmuir’s office. He’s with a client right now, but I’ll get him when he’s free. In the meantime, I’ll see if I can help you.”

Henry rose from his chair and gave Lucas a little nudge in the shoulder to encourage him to rise as well, and they joined Hanson and Jo. Bregoli hesitated, looking to Jo for an explanation on the extra people.

“This is Dr. Henry Morgan, he consults on our investigations,” Jo said, and she put a guiding hand on Lucas’ back. “And that’s Lucas Wahl, his assistant. Hanson, why don’t you and Lucas see what you can find out from reception. We’ll be right back.”

“You got it.” Hanson swung an arm around Henry and directed him towards the receptionist. Henry balked, eyes wide as he looked to Lucas, but Hanson pounded him on the back and didn’t give him an option to lag. “Come on, you wanted to see the glamorous side of investigating. I’ll let you hold my notepad and pencil.”

“Oh, but I could help with…but…”

Hanson dragged Henry away, lead-footed and protesting while Lucas gaped. Jo gave Bregoli a courteous nod and gestured for Bregoli to lead the way, and then propelled Lucas after him through the inner door.

It happened so fast that Lucas didn’t know what to do. He opened and shut his mouth like a marionette with a loose string as he looked over his shoulder towards Henry being led off in the other direction. Henry looked as desperate as Lucas felt. No help from him, then.

_No matter what happens, you must believe in yourself._

He could do that, right? For like, five minutes? He could at least fake it for that long.

As they entered the inner warrens of the dental practice, Jo tucked in close to Lucas’ side.

“After this, we’re gonna talk,” she murmured, and patted him firmly on the back.

Lucas was sure he was going to throw up all over Henry’s fancy shoes.

They followed Bregoli into a room as richly furnished as the waiting area. Awards and credentials lined the walls of Dr. Dunsmuir’s office, a space large enough to have a desk to one side, and a seating area with a couch and two armchairs around a low table to the other. Bregoli took one of the arm chairs, and Jo and Lucas settled on the couch.

“Have you seen this woman?” Jo said without preamble.

She took a photo from her pocket and slid it across the low table towards him. Bregoli picked it up and his eyebrows raised as his mouth parted.

“So you do recognize her.”

“She was in a number of times.” Bregoli lingered over the photo, then put it back on the table and pushed it back towards them. He tapped his fingers on his knee. “Maybe you should wait until Dr. Dunsmuir is done. He won’t be long.”

“Geri Glasser was murdered five days ago. Any information about who she was seeing or what she was doing in the days and hours leading up to her death could be helpful. That includes information you have, Dr. Bregoli.”

“We have a confidentiality policy regarding our clients. I don’t know how much I can say.”

Bregoli was in his thirties, with flawless skin that had the perfect brown glow of a tanning bed user. With his perfect teeth to match, he was as much a walking commercial for the cosmetic dentistry services as he was an employee. However, he’d lost his professional smile and was chewing on his bottom lip.

Lucas picked up the glossy snapshot and held it at the edges. The confident smile, the dark wavy hair, the lean jaw and sharp nose—after watching hours of Geri Glasser’s YouTube videos, Lucas could close his eyes and hear her deliver yet another “ _kick life in the balls”_ pep talk on flying. But that wasn’t who’d walked in here every week, was it? Someone else came here for their own reasons, wearing Glasser like a costume.

Where was Glasser, the woman who could shill for 48-hour endurance antiperspirant while lecturing on aerodynamics and heckling her students into line? Was she still alive? Was she at home in front of a mirror, freaking out and wondering who the hell she was, unable to remember herself?

Not likely. She would pull up her panties and keep kicking ass in whatever body she ended up in. She’d be out there taking her life back.

Just like Henry.

Henry had been all cozied up with Jo while Lucas was stuck listening and nodding and trying to keep cool as Detective Hanson rattled on about case details. It had been like old times, Jo and Henry with their heads together, talking about important things and deep gazing like no one else was around.

Was Henry going to keep his old life and have Lucas’ as well?

 

“Did you know her personally?” Jo asked.

“Me? No.” Bregoli rubbed his fingertips together over and over again, and he darted a glance towards the heavy teak desk on the opposite side of the office.

“How about anyone else in the office? Did she have a friend here, did she arrive or leave with anyone?” Jo leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees as she pinned down Bregoli’s evasive gaze.

“I can’t really say, I’m not sure.” Bregoli shifted in his chair.

“Typically, telling the police the truth during murder investigations is encouraged,” Jo said dryly. “Tell us what you know.”

“I don’t know for sure, and I don’t want to…” He licked his lips and shook his head. “The Dunsmuirs can’t know it came from me. I’d like to keep my job.”

“The Dunsmuirs?” Jo repeated. “More than one?”

“Catherine and Patrick Dunsmuir—husband and wife team, joint practice.” Bregoli winced. “I’m pretty sure Patrick was having an affair.” He gestured to the photo Jo had set on the table.

 

“What makes you think they were?”

 

“Dr. Dunsmuir—Patrick, I mean… Once was just after she’d been in I happened to leave after, and I saw them together walking down the block. She had her arm around his back.” Bregoli leaned forward, and much as he was struggling to maintain his professional reserve, beneath it he was dying to gossip about his employers. “You can’t tell them I said anything. It’s speculation. But she was friendly. Really friendly.”

“Is cheating something that normally happens with the Dunsmuirs?” The question popped out of Lucas’ mouth before he could even think about it.

“No, I don’t think so. If it is, they used to be a hell of a lot better at hiding it. Maybe since Catherine’s in semi-retirement and not here that much…” Bregoli slumped to the side and leaned on his elbow, and as his energetic mask slipped his exhaustion became apparent. “I don’t know what’s going on lately. There’s a malpractice suit being brought against the business, and no one can get anything out of them. It’s been months since I’ve been able to get either of them in for more than a routine consult. Me and the rest of the team are handling all the patients, and I’m run ragged. This is the first week Patrick’s been in more than two days in a row.”

Jo looked to Lucas, and for an unspoken moment it was like he could read her mind—they were both thinking of Lazaro Molina, slumping over the interrogation table and pouring out his frustrations over Glasser’s odd behaviour over the last two months, and Janet Figg’s railing against her unstable behaviour.

But where Jo saw a connection that might mean a murder suspect, Lucas saw the other half of Geri Glasser’s switch.

What would he and Henry have done to see each other and reconnect with their own bodies if they didn’t work together? Trips into the city, randomly sneaking off together—would it look like an affair? Hell, they worked together now and they were living with each other; it looked like an affair even _with_ the job connection.

The office door behind them opened. Bregoli shut his mouth and sprang to his feet, affixing his fake smile once again as an older man in his sixties with tidily cut snow-white hair came through the door. He paused in the doorway upon seeing them.

“Detective Martinez, Dr. Morgan,” Bregoli said, gesturing to Jo and Lucas as they stood to greet the new arrival, and then to his boss. “This is Dr. Patrick Dunsmuir.”

Dunsmuir nodded carefully to them. He came in and stood aside near the door, a hand on it.

“Thank you, Theo. Finish up with Mrs. Waskul in Room 3, and then have reception book a follow-up for her in a month.” He had a quick, firm way of speaking, as though he had no patience for delivering his orders, and would rather people read his mind and got on with it already.

“Right away.” Bregoli hustled out of the room, making no secret of his relief to be free of the situation.

Patrick Dunsmuir was on the portly side, with a roundness to his features indicating a sedentary lifestyle, and his white lab coat was as stark white as his hair, giving him the look of a doctor from a black-and-white Fifties television show. He stopped in the no man’s land between the door and the seating area to consider his options before he sat down in the chair Bregoli had evacuated. Pale blue eyes took in Lucas and Jo.

Lucas looked at the photo in his hand. Geri Glasser smiled up at him like a shark. Confident, sharp, forward.

“I was told you had some questions regarding one of our clients? I hope that Theo was upfront with you, our client confidentiality…”

He trailed off as Lucas flashed the photo at him.

Lucas’ vision was closing in like a tunnel.

“Do you know this woman?” Jo asked.

“I believe she was a client here,” Dunsmuir said. He twitched, just enough to give him away.

“You _believe_ ,” Jo repeated, overly polite sarcasm dripping from her words. “So you don’t have any other connection with Geri Glasser?”

At the mention of her name, Dunsmuir’s eyelids flickered. Jo plucked the photo from Lucas’ hand and slid it across the table and under his nose so he couldn’t avoid it. His incongruously dark eyebrows knit beneath the fringe of his white hair.

“Geri Glasser was murdered five nights ago,” Jo said. “We’re looking for information on how she might have ended up in a Manhattan park, dead. Do you have any ideas?”

Dunsmuir shook his head determinedly.

“I’m sorry to hear about her death.”

“How did you know her, Dr. Dunsmuir?” Jo persisted.

“She came here for our services. I’m sure we have the information in our records.”

“I know you’re lying,” Lucas said. His heart was pounding loud in his ears, nearly blocking everything else out. “You knew her. You know _exactly_ who she was.”

Sweat shone on Dunsmuir’s upper lip as he stared at Lucas, stiffly silent. Jo looked between Dunsmuir and Lucas, frowning, but she zeroed in on Dunsmuir.

“Where were you five nights ago?”

“I was home.”

“Can anyone corroborate that?” she asked.

“I was…” He trailed off, then took a deep breath and stood up. “I should to speak with my lawyer.”

“Do you need a lawyer, Dr. Dunsmuir?” Jo asked.

Dunsmuir pressed his lips together and said nothing. He turned away from them and marched over to his desk with rigid, military precision. Lucas was too blindsided to say anything else.

Jo stood and tucked her fingers in the loops of her belts.

“Dr. Dunsmuir, I think you’d better come back with us to the station. Your lawyer can meet you there.”

Lucas had the horrifying feeling that the person Jo was taking into custody for Geri Glasser’s murder _was_ their murder victim.


	17. Chapter 17

Henry had a soft spot for Mike Hanson. Despite his rough talk and posturing, he was a devoted father and family man, and a sharp investigator. Not quite as quick on the draw as Henry himself, but few were. Henry had the extra years of practice on most people, so he wouldn’t hold it against him.

Today, Mike Hanson was the bane of his existence. He relentlessly and inescapably involved Henry in the interview of the reception staff. He made ‘Lucas’ his scribe, and would occasionally lean over and tap the notepad in Henry’s hands, saying with a wink, “Make sure you write that one down, Lucas,” before returning to his questions. Other than the defunct home address Glasser had abandoned six weeks ago, and the information that she’d only seen Dr. Dunsmuir personally when she’d come into the office, there wasn’t anything to be learned here.

The decision to separate Henry from Lucas was so smoothly orchestrated that it had to have been planned, likely at Jo’s request. She was past the point of letting Henry run roughshod over her trust, and it was only a matter of time before she got Lucas alone long enough to give everything away. Lucas would find out the true depth of the trouble with their switch: not just a different body, but a possible eternity in that body.

Given the fragile state Lucas was in, Henry didn’t want to face that situation. They _had_ to find a solution before his secret was exposed.

Henry picked up a glass paperweight shot through with colourful suspended flowers and stars as Hanson asked yet another pedantic question. The trademark Baccarat signature and year was stamped into the glass—an authentic millefiori design. He grunted, impressed, and Hanson cast a curious look towards him.

“Their antiques collection is quite the thing,” Henry said by way of explanation, and offered Hanson the paperweight. “These 1848 productions are rare nowadays.”

Hanson didn’t look as interested as Henry, but he did look confused at the topic of antiques coming up with Lucas Wahl. Henry quickly put the item down, chastising himself for letting his mouth run. Boredom was no excuse for inattentiveness, and keeping this secret was much more demanding than protecting his immortality.

The receptionist smiled at him and acknowledged his interest in the glass paperweight.

“Dr. Dunsmuir loves to shop for old collectibles. She always seems to find something no matter what estate sale she hits.”

“She?” Hanson repeated. “You mean he?”

“Oh, no—Dr. _Catherine_ Dunsmuir,” the receptionist said. “Patrick is her husband. Don’t worry, people get confused all the time. We like to tell them that Dunsmuir Dental is so good, we had to get two of them to keep up with demand!” The joke and following laughter had the artificial shine of one delivered too often.

“Hey, Hanson.”

Henry and Hanson both turned from their discussion at the front desk to find Jo standing nearby, with Dr. Patrick Dunsmuir at her side. He had his coat over his arm and his eyes cast down, and Jo had a hold of his bicep in an unmistakable sign.

“Yeah, Jo?”

“Can you call ahead, let Lieu know that Dr. Dunsmuir’s lawyer will meet us at the precinct?”

“Sure.” Hanson dug in his pocket for his phone.

Lucas hurried through the open doorway leading from the inner office and edged past Jo. He was pale, yet filled with manic energy, and he grabbed a fistful of Henry’s jacket and leaned close.

“I need to talk to you,” he muttered, and pulled Henry away from Hanson.

“Henry,” Jo said, filling his name with a heavy warning. She did not look pleased at all.

“You’ve got a full car now, we’ll catch a cab!” Lucas said. He tugged Henry towards the door, nearly stumbling him in his haste. “We’ll meet you at the precinct.”

Hanson, phone to his ear, swung around at the commotion of their hasty departure, and Jo had her jaw set as she skewered both of them with a glare that could cause a fire. Lucas took no mind of either of them, determinedly rushing them towards the door. Henry gave them a haphazard wave of farewell as he hurried to keep up with Lucas.

As soon as they were out the door and into the building hallway, he knocked at Lucas’ hand to free himself.

“Lucas! Some discretion, please!”

“Too late for that.” Lucas picked up the pace as he jogged for the elevator at the end of the hall. “Hurry up.”

“Have you gone mad?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

Lucas stabbed the elevator call button and paced in a circle, one hand on his hip, the other wheeling through the air with wordless agitation. The elevator dinged and arrived, and Henry hustled Lucas into the elevator. Lucas collapsed against the wall, dejected, and finally spoke.

“It’s Dunsmuir. He knew Glasser, they were spending time together—Bregoli thinks it was an affair, but they could have been seeing each other because…” Lucas thunked his forehead against the wall with a pained moan. “Henry, I think it’s her. I think it’s actually Geri Glasser.”

“Dunsmuir _is_ Glasser?” Henry demanded. “What did he say? Tell me what he said.”

“He lawyered up. But when he—she—looked at the photo…” He closed his eyes in misery. “Whoever’s in there, I’m sure they know.”

Henry paced the small elevator space as they descended.

“We have to talk to him alone.”

“If they decide Dunsmuir killed Glasser, he’s going to jail. There’s no talking to him alone then,” Lucas pointed out.

“We’ll have to try.” He folded his arms and faced Lucas, who was breathing slowly and steadily like he was trying to calm himself down. “I might be able to arrange collecting swabs myself, speak to him then.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Lucas took a few more unsteady breaths. “Jo is really pissed.”

“Yes, I noticed,” Henry said. “We’ll avoid her until we’ve spoken to Dunsmuir. When I’m back in my own body, I’ll talk to Jo.”

“But what if it is Geri Glasser? Henry, what if there’s no way back, no way to fix this, what if—“

“Lucas, enough.” Henry took Lucas by the shoulders to steady him. “Just keep breathing.” He clasped his own face in his hands to make sure he had Lucas’ attention, and the jaw beneath his palms was so familiar it hurt. “We have a lead, and we _will_ get answers.”

The door dinged, and Henry released Lucas quickly. Henry was dizzy and lightheaded with excitement and dread, and he had to slow himself down to avoid sending Lucas’ body into a faint.

He could only hope that Patrick Dunsmuir, or Geri Glasser, or whoever it was, would have more answers for them than merely the circumstances surrounding the murder.

 

***

Despite Henry’s heavy suggestion that he do so, Lucas refused to go home. He was as eager for information as Henry, and Henry couldn’t begrudge him that.

Lucas chewed his thumbnail and paced around Henry’s office like a caged animal as they passed the time until Dunsmuir’s interrogation commenced. With Lucas’ agitation, no one in the morgue came near the office to disturb them, no doubt quite happy to let ‘Lucas’ take the brunt of their boss’ distemper. After a time they skulked up to the Homicide department, and when Jo went into the interrogation room and shut the door, Lucas and Henry made a dash for the observation room. Lieutenant Reece was taking a phone call in her office, and they had the booth to themselves.

Beside Patrick Dunsmuir sat his lawyer, a man in his mid-40s with dark blond hair. The lawyer kept glancing between Dunsmuir, the notes spread in front of him, and Jo and Hanson seated opposite them. Though he was the dentist’s legal representation, he looked extremely uncomfortable being in the room. Henry scanned Dunsmuir head to toe, looking for any sign that might give away information, but other than the usual anxiety most suspects presented, there was nothing.

“Dr. Dunsmuir, are you ready to speak with us now?”

Dunsmuir nodded, eyes downcast, and laced his hands together on the table.

“Yes, I’m ready,” he said.

“Thank you.” Jo folded her hands in a mirror to Dunsmuir’s pose. “Why don’t we start with how you knew Geri Glasser.”

Dunsmuir shifted in his chair and grimaced.

Next to Henry, Lucas nearly pressed his nose to the two-way mirror, and his breath fogged the glass.

“What is it?” Henry asked.

“I watched her YouTube videos over and over, I keep thinking that if it’s her, I’ll know. The way she moves, the way she talks. But you and me, we sound like ourselves. I don’t even know if I can speak with my regular accent anymore, yours is the default. And when I don’t think about it, I move like you, I do things you do. Can anyone tell us apart now, or are we just crazy versions of ourselves?”

Henry urged Lucas back from the glass so that his carelessly spoken words wouldn’t carry through to the other room.

“Well, what do you think, then? Is it her?” Henry asked, more to distract Lucas than anything.

“I don’t know. He doesn’t sound like he’s going to kick your ass and make you do ten laps around the field, but it’s an interrogation—does anyone sound like that in an interrogation? I think I’d wet myself if Jo and Hanson decided to go all Hawaii 5-0 on my ass.”

Henry didn’t understand what that meant, but nodded anyway. He kept a hand on Lucas’ shoulder in gentle admonition.

“Then I suggest we listen. Quietly.”

In the other room, Dunsmuir cleared his throat and started to speak again, and Henry fell quiet himself so they could hear his words being piped through the speaker into the observation room.

“She was a patient. A friend.” Dunsmuir glanced at his lawyer, who gave an encouraging tip of his head, and Dunsmuir slumped slightly. “We had an affair. I ended it, though. It was over.” Jo made a note on her legal pad in front of her, and Dunsmuir reached out a hand as though he would stop Jo from writing it down. He wisely cut the motion short. “I’ve never cheated on my wife before.”

“So what made you start now?” Hanson asked.

Dunsmuir looked to his lawyer again for help, who nodded and raised his eyebrows to encourage Dunsmuir to keep speaking.

“Sorry,” Dunsmuir said, gesturing to the lawyer by way of introduction. “Darren’s my divorce lawyer. I didn’t know who else to call, and he knows the whole story. This is not an everyday problem for me, I don’t have criminal lawyers on retainer.”

He waved a hand with a laugh to indicate the interrogation room and the situation at large that he found himself in. No one laughed with him, and he bowed his head. Jo shifted to the side towards Hanson and Henry could see her in profile. Her mouth was drawn with impatience, but she shifted and settled and said nothing.

“Divorce lawyer?” Lucas frowned in confusion.

“I can imagine that being unexpectedly thrust into a marriage adds a whole other dimension to a switch such as ours,” Henry said quietly.

Lucas cast him a sidelong glance, as though he might say something, but shook his head and resumed his observation.

Dunsmuir started talking to fill the uncomfortable, pointed silence in the interrogation room.

“I met Geri through my wife, Catherine. Catherine and I have had our dental practice for almost twenty years, but she’s been stepped back from seeing clients in the last year or so, taking up more of the business end of things. I don’t know if it was a midlife crisis, some need to prove to herself that she’s not too old for new things, but she started taking flying lessons. Geri was her instructor.”

“Did you go to the flight school as well?”

“Me? No. Catherine gave Geri a referral to the practice, and Geri came in. She insisted on seeing me, and I had an opening in my schedule.” He looked away from Jo. “I don’t know what I was thinking. At first, I think I was jealous. Catherine and I haven’t been close for years, but we’ve always been devoted to our work. Then these flying lessons took over her life.”

As Dunsmuir spoke, Henry’s skin prickled with numb alarm. _A few months ago_. The same as Glasser, the marker for when the switch had to have taken place.

“Catherine was throwing all her time into _hobbies_ , as though nothing we’d accomplished together meant anything. I wanted to know what Catherine was doing, and so I asked to speak with Geri after her appointment. I hoped I could talk to her about Catherine’s sudden change, see if I could understand what was going on. Geri was eager to talk with me, too. We went for coffee, talked, and…”

“You started sleeping with her,” Jo finished.

Dunsmuir blushed in embarrassment, lighting him up a ruddy red against his white hair and pale blue dress shirt, the flush the only warm colour on him.

“I’m not some young buck out sowing wild oats, Detective,” Dunsmuir said. “I’m sixty-three years old. Yes, we did, but mostly we talked. She listened, spent time with me. I haven’t had that with my wife in years, and yet with Geri, it was comfortable, like we had always known each other. My marriage was falling apart, my practice was going to collapse thanks to Catherine’s irresponsibility, and I didn’t have the money to buy out her half, nor the resources to run it on my own. I let myself behave foolishly.”

Lucas gripped Henry’s wrist, his eyes wild.

“Henry—his wife, Catherine—“

“I know,” Henry whispered. “Lucas, we have to listen.”

“So what happened five nights ago?” Jo asked. “Did you see Geri that night?”

Dunsmuir gripped his hands tight together, looking to his lawyer. His aloofness was gone, his attitude pleading.

“Darren, she’s still my wife,” he muttered, but loud enough for the microphones to pick up his private comment.

“You can’t take responsibility for her actions,” Darren said. He had no empathy for the other Dr. Dunsmuir, it seemed.

Dunsmuir’s shoulders slumped in defeat, and he nodded wearily.

“Two weeks ago, Catherine told me she wanted a divorce. She wanted out of the practice as well, she said she was done with everything. I thought she was upset about the affair, which she had every right to be. I spoke to Geri to break things off, and… Well, when she found out what Catherine had said, her response was what amounts to ‘good riddance.’ She had some kind of insane idea that she was going to step in and take over where Catherine left off. I ended it with Geri, but when I told Catherine, she said I could have Geri, it didn’t matter to her.” Patrick wiped a hand over his eyes, distressed. “I couldn’t handle it, either of them. They were both insane.”

“Patrick, what happened to Geri Glasser?” Jo persisted as Dunsmuir tried to twist away from her pointed questions, his storytelling hinting at justifications.

“The night that Catherine was packing to leave, Geri showed up on our doorstep with a gun, screaming that Catherine had ruined her life. Catherine…” Dunsmuir shook his head, momentarily at a loss for words. “I’ve never seen her angry like that, shouting at Geri, telling her to accept it, to move on. Geri tried to tell me that _she_ was my wife, that _she_ was Catherine. She was completely unbalanced, but Catherine did nothing to stop her, started shouting that Geri was welcome to Catherine’s life, but good luck trying to get it. I thought she was going to shoot Catherine, but she ran off saying it was over, that everything was over. Catherine chased after her. I waited all night, but Catherine never came home, and the next morning I read in the papers that Geri had died, and…and I assumed the worst.”

Lucas collapsed into a chair, and Henry leaned against the frame of the two-way mirror.

“Catherine Dunsmuir,” Henry rasped. “She was switched with Catherine Dunsmuir.”

“So you think your wife killed Geri Glasser?” Jo leaned towards Dunsmuir, and there was a hint of compassion in her voice.

“I can’t really believe she’s a killer, but… I don’t know what else to think. Catherine is no longer the woman I married.”

“Let’s hope that is not literally true,” Henry murmured, and Lucas made a quiet moan of distress.

“Where do you live?” Hanson asked.

“330 East 38th Street, unit 50.”

“That’s a block away from St. Vartan’s Park, where Glasser’s body was found,” Jo said to Hanson. “They could have run there easily.” To Dunsmuir she said, “Do you know where Catherine is now?”

“We’re supposed to meet at a coffee shop tonight to sign the final papers, and other than giving her a reference for a good doctor I think can help her, I’m done.” Through the observation room speakers, Dunsmuir sighed heavily.

“Where are you going to meet her?” Hanson asked, pen poised.

Dunsmuir gave them the address, and a glance at the clock said the meeting time was set from a half hour from now. Hanson dashed out the door with a promise to call a squad car to go pick her up.

Lucas leapt up, about to run for the door, but Henry caught him by the arm.

“If we can meet her at that coffee shop, we can talk to her.” Lucas tried to wriggle free of Henry’s grasp, but Henry held fast.

“Lucas, no—they’ll have her in custody long before we get there. Our best chance is to speak to her when she’s here.”

“But we have to talk to her! _”_ Lucas was slightly glassy-eyed, and he was trembling.

“Lucas, you have to slow down. Are you okay?”

“I don’t know,” Lucas said, and the words stuttered out, jagged and uncertain. “I don’t know—I’m sorry.” He rubbed the back of his hand across damp eyes. “I’m sorry, I’ll try to hold it together.”

“No need to apologize, Lucas. I understand. But we need to take this a step at a time so we can get our answers.”

“So what do we do?” Lucas asked Henry.

“We keep out of the way until we can talk to Catherine.” Henry did his best to project a confidence he didn’t feel. “They’ll bring her in, and we’ll find a way to speak with her.”

In the interrogation room, Jo rose from the table, picking up her papers and tapping the stack straight as she spoke.

“Until we bring in your wife and have some time to corroborate your story, we’re going to hold you.”

“My neighbours must have heard the commotion,” Dunsmuir said. “Geri and Catherine didn’t keep their voices down.”

“Does your building have security surveillance?” she asked.

“It does,” Dunsmuir confirmed.

Darren, his lawyer, patted Dunsmuir on the back when he leaned forward and planted his elbows on the table. It was as though the confession had physically taken the last bit of colour out of him, leaving him a washed out grey and pale-blue husk.

Henry and Lucas lurked in the observation room until such time as everyone in the interrogation room had left, then quietly slipped out. However, Jo finished a phone call at her desk and turned around to spot them crossing the detectives’ bullpen.

“Henry! Lucas!” She called out to them and beckoned them over.

Caught, the two of them were left without a choice other than making a very odd dash that would only draw more questions. They reluctantly went over to her. Jo pulled a colour printout from her file and handed it to Lucas.

“Meet Catherine Dunsmuir. Look familiar?”

Henry leaned over Lucas’ shoulder. The portrait was a professionally taken photo, a headshot against a subtly mottled blue and grey nondescript background. On the bottom, Dr. Catherine Dunsmuir’s name, followed by her string of professional letters, was printed out in gold lettering that stood out over the black of her blazer. She had a round, soft face, a freckled complexion with a concentration across the bridge of her nose, pale skin—

“She was the student Geri had on her YouTube video,” Lucas exclaimed. “The screaming one—the garage saler. Uh, estate saler.”

“You’ve been watching YouTube?” Jo gave him a bemused smile.

“I showed him,” Henry offered quickly. “On my smart telephone.”

Jo narrowed her eyes at Henry, and Lucas made a very quiet, pained noise. Henry had gotten something wrong in the idiom, apparently. Fortunately Jo let it pass and focused back on Lucas.

“I was thinking of when we ran into her at the flight school. She’d registered for a course, but was trying to get her money back with the other students. We saw her the day after Glasser’s murder—if Patrick is telling the truth, she lied to us.” Jo perched on the edge of her desk. “Were you in the observation room? Did you see Patrick’s interview?” At their nods, she asked, “What do you think?”

Lucas stalled for a long few seconds, and so Henry folded his arms and cleared his throat, gently interjecting into the conversation. Jo raised an eyebrow as she turned her attention to him, almost as though she wasn’t at all surprised that he was the one answering her question instead of ‘Henry.’

“If the security footage and interviews from neighbours supports his story, it’s entirely possible that Catherine was involved in Geri’s death. But if his description of her state was accurate, it’s possible that she was suicidal and Catherine attempted to prevent her shooting herself. The forensic evidence would be unable to distinguish between those two scenarios.”

Jo grunted and frowned.

“From the profile I put together on Glasser, she didn’t strike me as a suicide risk. Something happened a few months ago, something traumatic, if it changed her this much. Maybe Catherine Dunsmuir was somehow involved.”

Henry and Lucas looked to each other. Lucas gawped unpleasantly, his control over Henry’s features telegraphing every single emotion for all to see. Jo looked between them.

“Guys, is there something about this case that I need to know? Because this would be a _really_ good time to tell me if you do.”

“Jo?” Hanson called from his desk, and Jo looked to him. He waggled a phone receiver at her. “It’s the judge’s office, they need some info for the warrant.”

“Yeah, just a sec.” Jo folded her arms and turned back to the two of them with an unhappy sigh. “Whatever it is, if I find out you’re interfering with this case by withholding information, I’m not going to be forgiving. Got that?”

Both of them nodded silently, and Jo didn’t give them another second of her time. She went to take her phone call, and Henry and Lucas beat a hasty retreat.

There was nothing to do but bide their time until Catherine Dunsmuir was arrested—and that they would do far out of Jo’s sight.


	18. Chapter 18

Lucas and Henry lurked out of sight in the halls of the Homicide Department floor, trying to keep their heads down as much as possible. They found a spot by the soda machine to hide, and the after-dinner hour was late enough that they weren’t bothered.

Lucas had gone beyond concern straight into turbo worry mode, his thoughts a tornado of ideas and images whirling past him, none pausing long enough for him grasp hold of one. Being powered by bad breakroom coffee and a stale danish wasn’t helping, and he was about to wear a hole in the floor with his pacing. Henry tried a few times to get him to sit down, but he couldn’t hold still. The tension was eating a hole through him like the chestbuster from Aliens, drilling into his lungs so he couldn’t breathe.

Henry downed the last of his coffee and tossed the paper cup into the trash bin next to them as the elevator scrolled open and their quarry emerged. Across the department floor, two uniformed officers were guiding Catherine Dunsmuir in.

“That’s her,” Henry said.

She was unmistakable; the reddish-blond hair of her swingy bob was mussed and awry, but the round, freckled face was the same. The student from the YouTube video, the woman Henry had seen at the flight school—Dr. Catherine Dunsmuir, swap victim, and possible murderer.

And, for the time being, completely out of reach.

“What do we do?” Lucas whispered.

“We listen to the interrogation, see what she has to say,” Henry said. “If we’re fast, we can catch her on the way out of the room. I can distract the detectives in order to give you a short window to get a word in with her.”

For the thousandth time in the past few days, Lucas was glad that Henry seemed to know what he was doing. Glad, but also dejected.

It was horrible watching Henry settle into Lucas’ body like he’d owned it since the beginning of time. He was coping just fine, taking it all in stride, hiding in plain sight and not giving a damn who called him by what name, who thought what about him. Lucas was a ball of nerves every time anyone looked at him. He’d do anything to have someone look at him and recognize him, give a little nod and say, “Hi, Lucas.” Even Abe, who knew the deal, did a little double-take every time he saw one of them before he said something to them.

They’d only made it a few paces down the hall when Lucas’ cell phone buzzed in his pocket.

He fumbled for it immediately—Sabrina had been texting him all day, and Lucas had been grasping onto the ongoing conversation like a lifeline. She was the one person who was actually talking to him, and he was pretty sure that was all that was keeping him from a great big meltdown in the middle of the precinct.

However, when he pulled out his phone, his heart sank. Incoming call—from his mom.

This was the third time she’d called in the last few days, and he’d been dodging them. He’d sent her an email to reassure her he was fine, just busy. Of course, she was never very good at taking that for a final answer. She’d said she’d keep trying him, and here she was. His mom was a worrier—Lucas came by it naturally—and wouldn’t feel settled until she’d heard his voice and could natter at him a bit.

“What is it?” Henry stopped and turned back towards Lucas when he lagged behind.

Lucas flashed the phone at Henry, to the giant ‘MOM’ emblazoned across the screen with the flashing notification as it buzzed. Henry made a face, and he shook his head.

“Come along, Lucas. We need to hear this.”

Lucas stared at the incoming call flashing on the screen. Any other time, he’d have been annoyed at his mom for being so persistent and pushy. He always was when she got like this, and she never wanted anything serious. But today… he’d give anything to hear her voice.

Lucas grabbed Henry by the arm and dragged him back to the vending machine. Lucas thrust the phone at him.

“You have to talk to her,” he said urgently.

“Lucas—I can’t!” Henry tried to push the phone away, but Lucas didn’t relent. “What could I say? She’s your mother, she’ll—“

The call was about to go to voicemail, and Lucas couldn’t take listening to yet another guilt-inducing message, so he swiped to answer the call and put the phone to his ear.

“Hello, Dr. Henry Morgan speaking.”

Henry gawped at him with an expression Lucas had seen a few times on his face in pictures when caught by surprise, a large-eyed open-mouthed stare that looked like he’d been slapped in the face by life.

 _“Oh… I’m looking for my son? Lucas Wahl? Did I get the wrong number? I thought I had the right number…”_ Her voice faded, and Lucas could picture her looking at the little display on the handset to check the number she’d dialled.

“No, Mrs. Wahl, you have the right number.” With the formal address and Henry’s accent, Lucas sounded like the very model of a British gentleman. “Lucas had his hands full, but didn’t want your call to go unanswered.”

Cheryl Wahl, bless her corn-fed Midwestern heart, made a pleased noise that was audible through the phone speaker even to where Henry stood, judging by his pained recoil and the vehement shake of his head.

_“Dr. Henry Morgan! You’re the one Lucas talks about so much! Listening to him go on and on, it’s adorable. That boy and his crushes, he’s been the same since he was little, starry-eyed over all his heroes…”_

For the first time since he’d opened his eyes and looked Henry’s face in the mirror, Lucas was glad to be in Henry’s body—better him listening with these ears than Henry. The creeping warmth of a deep flush heated up his face.

“I’m sure he’s not _that_ bad,” he mumbled.

_“You have no idea how my boy can gush when you get him going. Oh, did you really find a body with pirate gold in its teeth? It is just amazing what goes on in New York. Sometimes I worry about Lucas being there, but he seems so happy doing what he does—and I have to thank you, Dr. Morgan, I think you inspired him on a path. Lucas wasn’t one of those quick starters out the gate from school, he’s taken a while to find himself and pick a direction. But since meeting you—“_

“Oh, look at that!” Lucas cut into the mortifying stream, suppressing the groaning ‘Ma, _please_ ’ brewing in his chest. “Lucas is free now. We’re in the middle of something, but I think he has a moment to say hello.”

“ _Well, if you’re,_ ” Lucas caught before he pressed the phone against his shoulder to muffle it.

Henry was shaking his head already with his hands up defensively.

“Lucas, no, I can’t!” he whispered.

“You _have_ to!”

Lucas grit his teeth to stop himself from screaming at Henry. The hair-trigger temper was unlike him; he was on edge all the time now. Normally he was pretty relaxed, but Lucas was starting to understand that it was his regular, boring life that kept him so content. He couldn’t keep up with this wild unpredictability—couldn’t live the double life full of secrets that Henry did. In his heart he was Boring Old Lucas Wahl, with his nine-to-five job and stupid hobbies and a mom who worried too much.

Lucas took another breath to calm himself down.

“Please. She hears that I’m alive by phone once a week, and she’s happy. That’s it.”

Henry looked down the hall towards the interrogation room where Catherine Dunsmuir had been hustled away, and then back to the phone against Lucas’ shoulder.

“What do I say?”

“Say ‘uh-huh’ a lot, she’ll take care of the rest.” He moved to hand the phone over, then muffled it again. “And whatever she says…um, just ignore most of it. She exaggerates a lot.”

Henry frowned and nodded, and took the phone like it was a live rattlesnake. He held it to his ear. He paused, looking to Lucas for guidance.

“Hi, Ma,” Lucas whispered.

“Hi, Ma,” Henry dutifully repeated.

The buzz of Cheryl’s voice filled Henry’s ear, and he darted another glance at Lucas, with a raised eyebrow. A minute passed before there was a brief pause.

“Uh-huh,” Henry said.

Lucas’ shoulders inched down from their tight position. He sat on one of the two flimsy chairs by the vending machine and settled in to wait, hands tight between his knees. The light wool fabric of Henry’s trousers was soft against the backs of each hand.

After a few more wordless noises of agreement, Henry came and sat next to him. He shifted so he was near Lucas’ ear, and tilted the phone so that Lucas could also listen to the conversation.

Lucas closed his eyes and let his mom’s stories of home wash over him, with his own voice responding in a dutiful, bored tone. It was like any average Sunday, if he believed hard enough.

 

***

 

As Lucas’ mother narrated the extensive daily adventures of life in wherever Lucas’ family was from—somewhere with a great deal of bothersome construction obstructing traffic at the corner of Exchange and Main Streets—Henry’s tension ebbed away.

The rhythm of her voice seeped into him like a poultice on aching muscles, deeply familiar and comfortable. He leaned against Lucas’ shoulder as the two of them listened to her blow-by-blow of a disagreement with a co-worker over whether or not the hot water pie crust was a viable alternative for apple pie, given the savoury addition of cheese with a tart interior.

So long ago, he’d listened to Abigail speak with her mother once a month on the telephone, each of them spending what seemed like hours communing over the small details of life. Henry had emphasized that he didn’t want Abigail to lose her family, and so they’d kept in touch with visits in the early years of their marriage, and by phone exclusively in later years, or Abigail going home on her own to visit. The cost of long-distance calls in those days had been exorbitant, but even after the wars, Henry had plenty saved to spend on whatever their hearts desired.

Abigail would smile at him with a twinkle in her eye as she spoke on the phone and answered that yes, Henry was well; healthy and handsome as ever. He’d kiss Abigail on the forehead and hear the distant, tinny tones of his mother-in-law’s voice.

_“Lucas, hon?”_

Lucas elbowed him, and Henry blinked out of his reverie.

“Oh, sorry.” Lucas mouthed words to him, and he repeated, “No thanks, Ma,” into the phone. Lucas gave him a thumbs up.

_“Well, if you’re sure. I bet if I send it with FedEx, it would get there safe and sound. You can take it in to work and share. Oh, do they let you eat in there? With all those bodies?”_

Henry had missed something in the conversation, but he chuckled at her comical impression of the morgue and its denizens.

“We have a lunch room, don’t worry.” Not that Lucas often made use of it, having the appalling habit of eating at his desk. Granted, the morgue was cleaner than most industrial kitchens, but still.

 _“Oh—‘course you do.”_ She sighed heavily into the phone. _“I know you can go out and eat whatever you like, but it’s your birthday, hon. A cake’ll make it feel special.”_

Lucas’ birthday. Henry glanced at Lucas, who had knuckles pressed to his mouth, as though he had to stop himself from responding to the conversation.

So many threads in Lucas’ life left dangling.

For Henry, there was little enough tying him to his life. Abe, of course, but that was a relationship that had, and would, stand all tests. Jo, but he still didn’t know if that was meant to be, or if it was already unravelling. His job, but he’d had so many over the years.

Family, friends, lovers—Lucas had an entire life trapped behind glass.

At the end of the hall, the door to the interrogation room opened, and both Jo and Hanson emerged. They met with Lieutenant Reece coming from the observation room and spoke in depth. Henry glanced significantly to Lucas, and Lucas nodded.

“Ma, I think I have to go back to work.”

_“Oh, yes! You’re at work, I almost forgot. You tell Dr. Morgan thank you for letting your mother borrow you from this crazy schedule he’s got you on this week. And don’t work too hard, okay? I love you, Sugar.”_

Lucas mouthed, ‘I love you too, Mom.’

Henry repeated it, the words like dust in his mouth.

The call disconnected, and Henry handed the phone back to Lucas. Lucas stared at the dark screen on the phone, picking at the corner of the black plastic case.

“We should…” Henry indicated the detectives’ bullpen.

“Sure, yeah.” Lucas tucked the phone into his pocket. “Sorry. And thank you.”

“Of course.”

He nearly said it was no trouble, but that was too far beyond the realm of belief for either of them, even as a pleasantry. They’d begun to move into territory that felt permanent.

They’d irrevocably lost the opportunity to hear Catherine Dunsmuir’s interrogation, unfortunately. Hanson and Jo were already walking to their desks. Hanson slid into his chair and picked up the phone while Jo set the case file on his desk.

“I’ll arrange to cut Janet Figg loose,” Henry heard Hanson said. “She’s gonna be gone as soon as her lawyer gets wind of it, might as well get it started.”

“Great, thanks.” Jo spotted Henry and Lucas, and touched Hanson on the shoulder. “I’ll be right back.” Jo came over to them and folded her arms. Her weight hung on one cocked hip, her body giving away her exhaustion. “You guys in this for the long haul tonight?”

“Want to see it through to the end,” Lucas said.

“Since we were already here,” Henry added.

She gave them both a blank look and then shook her head.

“Whatever, I’m too tired for you guys right now.” She rooted in her pocket for a ponytail holder and tied her hair up in a messy knot as she spoke to them. “So, Dr. Catherine Dunsmuir claims she tried to stop Geri Glasser from killing herself. They struggled, the gun went off—but I get the feeling it didn’t go down like she said. We do have her on obstruction, but with the forensic evidence the way it is, we don’t have a murder charge that’ll stick. Even manslaughter’s iffy once the lawyers get hold of this. We’ll try security cameras between the Dunsmuirs’ apartment and the park, see what we can find out.”

“Where is she now?” Lucas folded his arms tightly.

“They’re taking her down to holding for the night, but I doubt she’s going to be there that long. Her lawyer is already petitioning for bail, and he’s—”

“Jo?” Reece called from her office door. Next to her, two men in drab suits carrying the standard black leather briefcases indicating officers of the District Attorney’s office, entered her office. “Can you come in please?”

“And this is where the case goes down the tubes,” Jo said with a dry drawl. “Damn it. But without a confession, it’s circumstantial.” She grimaced when Reece gave her an impatient wave. However, she stayed long enough to put a hand on Lucas’ arm. “Tomorrow, okay?”

It was an ominous promise, one Henry hoped would be moot after they spoke to Catherine Dunsmuir.

Jo left them to go speak to Reece and the DA’s office representatives, and by silent agreement Henry and Lucas headed for the elevators to go down to lockup where Catherine Dunsmuir would be held until such time as her lawyers could free her.

When exiting to the main level to go towards the holding cells, the double-doors opened and Catherine Dunsmuir emerged. She held her black coat to her chest along with a bag of what were likely her confiscated possessions, newly returned to her. Her red, puffy eyes were downcast as she hustled for the exit at a pace closer to a jog than a walk.

“Henry,” Lucas hissed, and tugged at Henry’s jacket. “What do we do? What do we say?”

She passed within a few feet of them, and Henry loudly called out, “Geri?”

Catherine’s head jerked up; large, liquid brown eyes, skin blotchy with tears. In the evening, the precinct was calmer than the busy comings and goings of mid-day, but the few people passing by them seemed to slow to a crawl as Catherine stared at them.

“Geri Glasser?” Henry took a few steps towards her.

She shook her head so furiously that her bobbed hair flew in her face, grey hairs covered by a fresh strawberry blonde dye job. She backed up on tottering steps and moved to circumvent them and get to the exit.

“No—you must be mistaken,” she said. Her voice quavered. “My name is Doctor Catherine Elizabeth Dunsmuir. I am _Catherine Dunsmuir_.” She covered her mouth and backed off another step, as though regretting speaking to them at all. She turned away from them and resumed her path.

“Wait.” Henry rushed to cut her off as he dug in his pocket. “We need to speak with you.”

He held up the wooden baton, and Catherine reared back from it like it would burn her.

“Where did you get that?” She looked to Lucas lurking behind Henry, and dismay creased her round face. “Oh god, no.”

“It was on Geri’s body when we found her,” Henry said. “I think you know what happened after we touched it the first time.”

Catherine’s bottom lip trembled, and she clutched the jacket tight to her chest like it would ward off the baton’s influence.

“I can’t help you. There’s nothing I can do.”

“Please,” Henry said, and his voice shook unpleasantly. “I’m begging you. We don’t have anyone else we can talk to.”

Lucas’ hands were over his mouth together, steepled as though in prayer, and Catherine closed her eyes. She sniffed and wiped at her face and finally nodded.

“Fine. Not here.”

She lowered her head and walked on, and Henry and Lucas followed after her.


	19. Chapter 19

Through the grid of iron bars reinforcing the large pharmacy front window, Henry and Lucas watched Catherine set a fistful of crumpled bills onto the counter and collect her few items. They were headed towards the shore promenade a few blocks distant, and had stopped in at the pharmacy at Catherine’s request—her first words since leaving the station.

She emerged with a paper bag in one hand and a bottle of sparkling water in the other. She downed a long drink of the water, and it seemed to revitalize her a little, and she looked up and down the street, as though she wasn’t quite sure where she was.

“So, not to be nosy or anything, but, um… Who are you?” Lucas peered at her from over the scarf he’d wrapped around his chin, giving Henry’s form the appearance of an anxious owl.

“Catherine Dunsmuir,” Henry said, eyes narrowed as he examined the woman before them. She’d spent months answering to a different name, but her assertion earlier had held the same desperate panic, the need to be seen, that Lucas exuded like a physical field. “You are Catherine, aren’t you?”

Catherine nodded. She’d stopped crying, but her eyes remained red and puffy, with the hollowed out emptiness of extreme fatigue.

“How long?” Catherine asked Henry, not quite meeting his gaze.

“Six days,” Henry said.

“Six very long days,” Lucas drawled.

Catherine laughed shortly as she walked to press the button for the crosswalk.

“You and Geri?” Henry asked.

“Two months and twenty-three days.”

Henry was certain he could ask her to add hours and minutes to that total, and she would be able to do so.

Catherine pulled a package of nicotine gum from the paper bag under her arm and pried a piece out of the foil-backed blister package.

“Geri smoked.” Catherine didn’t look at them, or appear to expect a response. “I woke up with horrible cravings, coughing like I was dying. She didn’t stop, after we changed.” Catherine grimaced as she popped the gum into her mouth, but chewed it with a fatalistic determination. “I’ve never smoked in my life, and now I dream about cigarettes.”

The biting wind from off the river cut into them when they cleared the last buildings before the waterfront. The orange streetlights turned Catherine’s hair a rosy copper colour, and she huddled in the collar of her stylish black peacoat. Lucas buttoned up Henry’s long overcoat and tightened his scarf, and Henry wished he had continued his custom of wearing one even in Lucas’ body. He zipped up the inadequate leather jacket and stuffed his hands in the pockets. Lucas’ body chilled faster than his own, and with a longer stride, he was moving slower so as not to outpace the other two. He touched the pocket watch nestled in Lucas’ jacket, and turned the familiar shape over in his fingers.

“Catherine,” Henry prompted when she hadn’t spoken for some time. “What happened?”

“You won’t believe me,” she murmured as she looked out over the water. “Why would anyone believe me?”

“I’ve spent the last week in my boss’ body, talking with a British accent that won’t quit. I’m ready to believe anything,” Lucas made a joke of it, but his strain was evident.

Catherine’s wan smile was quick but sincere, and she nodded.

“I found that—that _thing_ at an estate sale.” She glanced at the wooden baton once again hidden in Henry’s pocket. “I thought the wood was a nice colour, that I might cut it in half and replace the knobs on a cupboard I’d bought ages ago. My first flight lesson was a birthday gift from a friend in my exercise class, and it gave me a good excuse to look at sales up that way, see what I could find since I was out of the city. Things here get picked over so fast.”

“Yes, I saw items from your collection in your practice,” Henry said. “Very nice. My friend runs an antiques store, and he would approve of your eye.”

A slight spark of life flared in her dull demeanour, and she turned bashful at the unexpected praise.

“It’s a hobby, but I’ve gotten quite good at spotting the treasures in amongst the chintz. And Patrick said all that Antiques Roadshow was a waste of time.” She chuckled, but it quickly faded, her blue eyes filling with tears again. She covered her mouth. “Oh, god. Patrick…” She choked and closed her eyes, and a sob shook her shoulders.

Divorce papers drawn up and waiting for her upon her return, her practice in ruins, and the only person who could validate her experience was dead. Henry could well understand her grief.

Lucas looked from Henry to Catherine, and then moved towards her with a soft _tsk_ -ing noise.

“Hey, come here.” Lucas wrapped his arms around Catherine. Catherine’s sobs hiccupped as she tried to stifle her crying, but Lucas patted her firmly on the back and tightened his arms. “Let it out. I know how you feel. It’s okay, we know.”

She bowed her head and sobbed unabashedly as Lucas rocked her and shushed her, and Henry stood outside himself watching the scene—Lucas, open-hearted Lucas, easily embracing Catherine.

Henry cared, he empathized, he _understood_ , but it was Lucas who leapt in with the full understanding that human contact was required, who could open himself up to fully experience her pain with her. Henry ducked his chin to his chest and tried to squash the odd feeling of exclusion. He chose to be an observer in life, to absent himself from too many connections, but it stung when he realized how cool and remote it made him; he forgot that the sharp pains that inevitably passed, the ones that must be borne, were suffocating for those who had only a single lifetime to cope with them.

In Lucas’ easily shared empathy, Henry saw a shadow of the man he could be; one connected to his fellow travellers in this life, able to participate in as well as understand their stories.

“He—he paid my bail, Patrick paid both our bails, and then he made me sign the divorce papers on the sergeant’s desk,” Catherine sobbed into Lucas’ shoulder. “He hates me. I lied to him for months, _we_ lied. If she hadn’t told him she was leaving him, I could have gone _back_ …” She trailed off into an anguished scream that was muffled in Lucas’ shoulder. “It’s all gone, my life is _gone_.”

Henry met Lucas’ eyes. Lucas looked ready to lose it himself, holding fast to Catherine like he might collapse if he didn’t hold her tight enough.

Many long minutes later, Catherine pulled back from Lucas and wiped at her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “Oh, I didn’t mean to…” She’d left a damp patch on Henry’s overcoat, and Lucas looked down at it as she made an abortive move to wipe at it.

“It’s fine. Gotta have a good cry now and then, right? Good for you.” Lucas blinked a few times rapidly, and soldiered through with another fake smile. “Had a few of those times myself, lately.”

“My inner left pocket, Lucas. I keep a handkerchief in there.” Henry patted his left side to demonstrate. Lucas pulled out the white square of cloth and offered it to Catherine, who wiped at her puffy eyes, embarrassed.

Henry felt the wooden baton under his hand when he patted his side, and he pulled it from his pocket again. He turned the smooth, cool length over and rubbed his thumb over the subtle hand grips. All this furor, caused by a little piece of wood. It didn’t seem possible.

“I went back to the house where I bought it,” Catherine said. She kept a careful eye on the baton in Henry’s hands, like he were handling a poisonous snake. “The man who owned the house had been a recluse for decades. He’d cut contact with his family when his gardener suddenly moved in with him. They thought the man had had a stroke, or that the gardener was his lover, but neither of them spoke to anyone. The gardener died in his sleep, and the owner overdosed on pain medication and died a day later.”

“They were switched,” Henry said, drawing the conclusion out.

“For at least thirty years,” Catherine confirmed with a nod.

Henry’s features turned pale and slack with Lucas’ shock. He turned his back to Henry and Catherine and leaned his hands on the rail that barricaded the edge of the riverside path.

 _Thirty years_. In thirty years, Henry would be in the later half of his third century. Lucas—Lucas would be in his sixties. Henry might look on himself with Lucas’ grey hair and wrinkles.

How would Lucas cope with watching his own body age and die without him?

Lucas’ head lowered to his crossed arms on the railing, and he didn’t stir. Catherine gave Henry a questioning look if they should do anything. He shook his head.

“It’s been a very long week.”

“It doesn’t get easier.” She took a sip of her water and blinked, long and slow. “I’m so tired,” she murmured. “Geri was ten years younger than me, but I never had that much energy, even when I was her age. It was like having a constant fire inside me—always needing to move. But now I miss it.”

Geri, even in her videos, had exuded the energy commensurate with a high metabolism and driven spirit. Catherine, with her softer, rounder figure, her slow and careful movements, was at odds with that speed of life. She was a slow and steady person, with a life that had been on a steady trajectory from the day she’d graduated from her dental program and begun a practice with her husband.

Henry guided Catherine to a nearby bench, and she sat heavily. Ten feet distant, Lucas still had his head on his arms and hadn’t moved. Henry opted to let him be for now.

“Who are you two? Are you police officers?” Catherine asked

“I’m the Assistant Chief Medical Examiner for the county,” Henry said. “Lucas works under me.”

She harrumphed, pouting slightly.

“Independently wealthy man and his gardener, two medical examiners in the same office—you can fake that. A pilot and a dentist? I couldn’t fly worth a damn. I’d had all of three lessons, and then I go and pull that thing out of my purse to show her. Next thing, we wake up in the flight hangar.”

She trailed off, leaning back against the bench and looking up at the sky. The clear night was near uniform black, only a few stars visible through the city’s light pollution. The questions burned on Henry’s tongue, but he kept quiet and let her work through her tale. As he’d said to Lucas, believing in one’s own existence was a key requirement for continued survival, but having someone bear witness to it, confirm it as true and real, was a validating experience that everyone needed. For seventy years Henry had enjoyed the decadent luxury of it, and he’d not deny someone else through his own impatience.

“She said I had to learn to fly because she was in the middle of some deal with the owner—but she refused to learn anything about dentistry or my business,” Catherine continued. “Told me she was going to take a leave of absence until we worked it out. Had me send Patrick an _email_ to tell him about it. He was so confused, so upset. It’s only been a year since we fought about my reducing hours to start early retirement. He kept saying he’s in his sixties and he’s fine, and I was only fifty-five, why was I so…”

Catherine took another sip of water. Her mouth worked around the gum and she made another face.

“She had horrible dental hygiene practices. I had to go twice just to get rid of her plaque and gingivitis.” Her jaw worked as she ran her tongue along her teeth.

“Is that how you ended up seeing your husband again?”

She sniffed and wiped her eyes and nose with the borrowed handkerchief.

“That was the excuse. He was my husband _,_ why shouldn’t I see him? She only had that loser boyfriend, and she didn’t care what happened to him, she was only using him. I don’t know if Geri was capable of loving anyone but herself. It was always about what _she_ wanted, no one else.” Catherine flushed red, hissing and spitting on Geri’s memory. “And Patrick—he was talking to me, for the first time in years. Why couldn’t he have spoken to _me_ that way? We used to talk all the time, but some woman walks into his life, and he finds time for her, and it’s like I don’t exist. I don’t care how she was treating him, _I’m his wife_.” She stopped, looking up and back in the direction they’d walked from the precinct. “I was his wife.” She laughed suddenly, and turned her reddened blue eyes on him, her smile threatened by her trembling bottom lip. “I’m angry because he cheated on me with myself. Isn’t that pathetic?”

“No,” Henry said. “No, it isn’t. Catherine, it was you he gravitated towards, the you inside Geri’s body. Take heart in that.”

“What does it matter? It’s over now.” She blinked away.

Beyond her, Lucas finally stirred. He lifted his head, shoved his hands in his pockets and rejoined them, mouth set in a grim, bloodless line.

“How did you switch back?” Lucas stopped in front of the bench, facing her and Henry. “How did you fix it?”

Catherine wet her lips. She fiddled with the water bottle in her hands, unable to look at either of them.

“She told me she was leaving Patrick, leaving the practice, and would go back to re-qualify as a pilot—force Patrick into a divorce settlement, then take the money and buy that stupid flight school. What could I do? She had my face, my name, I couldn’t stop her. I thought I could hurt her, but Lazaro, he wasn’t anything to her. She didn't care if I slept with him, I don’t know why I thought… So I got Janet’s gun, I went to…” She shuddered, and muffled a sob behind the handkerchief. “I couldn’t kill her. I wanted to, but I couldn’t. I went to the park, because I needed it to be over. But it’s never over. No matter what I do, it’s never over.”

“What do you mean it’s never over?” Lucas’ voice rose, going squeaky and thin. His hands came from his pockets, balled in fists. “What do you mean? You’re Catherine, right? You’re not Geri? What are you saying?”

“Don’t you get it?” Catherine looked up at him, her face blazing with disgust, with anger, with countless emotions. “The gardener died, and the other killed himself a day later. Can you blame him? How could you live after…” Catherine slumped as the brief energy from her fury fled, and she closed her eyes. “I just wanted it over. There was no reason to keep going. She tried to stop me—and I pulled the trigger—I heard it, I _felt_ it…” She covered her face with her hands. “I woke up next to her. She was dead, lying there. It should have been me, but it was _her_ , I killed her…” She keened softly into her palms.

“What are you saying?” Lucas demanded, even though it was becoming very, very obvious. He turned to Henry, eyes wide. “Henry, what’s she saying?”

Henry tried to speak, but he was unable. His mind balked at the mercilessness of it, the unfairness.

“That you don’t switch back until one of you dies,” she snapped at Lucas through her sobs. “There’s only one survivor in this stupid game, and it’s the one who gives up first.” Catherine laughed, a maniacal sound that made Henry’s hairs prick up unpleasantly. “It’s a cruel joke. Sure, you might get your body back, but your life is over anyway.”

“Catherine—“ Henry reached a hand out to comfort her, but she shoved off the bench and strode away from him.

“I can’t help you. I’m sorry.” She hurried away at a near run, her low-heeled shoes clicking loud on the cement.

“Wait—wait! You can’t go!” Lucas called after her, taking a few steps to follow.

“Leave me alone!” she cried. Her voice was quickly swallowed by the wind off the river sweeping their empty stretch of the promenade, but her footsteps thudded dully back to them.

Henry sat, stunned into silence, and Lucas twisted between Catherine’s fleeing form and Henry.

“Henry… Henry, you have to do something. This is definitely not how it works in the movies. This is—this can’t be how it works. Henry?”

Lucas’ pleading turned into a blur as Henry’s thoughts whirred.

One of them had to die—but how could they do that when one of them could not do so? The question came again: which of them was immortal? And even if they could somehow figure out who, would it make a damned bit of difference?

Had Henry’s immortality thwarted their only solution?

 

***

 

“One person has to die?” Abe kept his rough voice to a gravelly whisper, leaning across the kitchen island counter to be heard. “What kind of crappy mystical mumbo-jumbo solution is that?”

“Over the last few centuries, I’ve had time to discover that life's ‘mystical mumbo-jumbo’ has a very poor sense of humour.”

“Oh, come on, don’t give me that. Immortality and everlasting youth has its upsides. This is different. This isn’t fair.”

“I agree, it’s not.”

They both looked to Lucas, who’d collapsed on the couch and was staring at his phone, lost doing who-knew-what. After a very loud, distressed tirade on the waterfront, he’d exhausted himself and they’d caught a cab home. He’d retreated into his own thoughts and distractions, and Henry had taken advantage of it to fill in Abe while preparing tea in the kitchen, letting the bang of cupboards and the hiss of boiling water obscure their conversation.

“How are you doing?” Abe asked.

“Better than Lucas.”

“That’s not saying much.” He frowned in Lucas’ direction. “I’m worried about the kid, Henry.”

Henry took up the cup of tea he’d brewed for himself, piping hot, and thick and strong enough to kick him in the teeth. He took a careful sip, then led Abe out onto the terrace and carefully shut the door with a last glance at Lucas, who remained absorbed in his telephone screen.

“This is…” He looked at the palm of Lucas’ large hand—or was it his, now?—and turned it over to look at the back. “This is a special form of torture, to not recognize yourself. To be riddled with another man’s tics and habits, to be able to see but not communicate with your own life.”

“Hm, I bet,” Abe grunted. “You’ve been you for a pretty long time.”

“True,” Henry said with a deprecating smile. “But I’ve had to let go of a great many expectations on what life had in store for me. Life is constant change, and you rarely get a polite warning. The world I knew when I was born has transformed to something unrecognizable—and I know I’d be a hermitic Luddite in the hills if it weren’t for you, Abe. It’s been an endless uphill battle. I’ve done my best, but at times I’m lost amongst it all.”

He looked at the cityscape beyond the railings of the terrace, high rises having grown up like so many trees in the years since they’d lived in this apartment, never mind the decades over which he’d watched New York evolve and change.

“I’ve grown accustomed to a certain lack of control. I can adapt. However, I fear Lucas does not have those skills to draw upon, and the strain is telling.”

“You’re immortal though; maybe you can cheat the system. Both of you get to come back.”

Abe sat in one of the teak chairs by the outdoor table and pushed out another for Henry, who slid in next to him. The jasmine vine twining through the arbour above them was in early bloom, and its perfume hung heavy and thick around them, tickling his nose. Seasonal allergies; yet another small indignity to resign himself to along with all the others.

“Theoretically. Or, it could negate the solution entirely, as one person never truly dies.” He tapped his fingers on the tabletop. “And there is the question of which of us is immortal. Me, or Lucas in my body?”

“We could wait and see who gets older,” Abe suggested.

“Look at him after a week!” Henry waved his hand towards the apartment, towards the withdrawn shell Lucas had become, growing more unstable with each passing day. “How long would it take to properly convince ourselves one of us has not aged? A year? Two, or three? What would that do to him? And even at the end of that, there would be no guarantees as to whether or not it would work to try and switch back. The solution is dubious at best—we have a sample size of one, and a third-hand story to confirm it as a pattern. We are in the realm of wishes and superstition.”

“So what are you saying, Henry?” Abe leaned towards him, elbow on the table and his brow set low.

Henry swallowed another sip of tea, scalding his tongue. He sucked in a breath of cool air to soothe the burn. The splash of pain helped him focus, to present the solution in a straight-forward, unemotional manner.

“My body will have to die.”

“Which means Lucas will go back to his body,” Abe said. He tugged at his chin as he contemplated Henry. “And you would go back to your body when it revives.”

“That’s the ideal outcome, yes.”

“There’s some pretty un-ideal outcomes, too,” Abe said. He pulled off his glasses and dropped them on the table. “Ah, hell, Henry. I don’t like this.”

“Abe,” Henry said gently. “I’ve had a long life. Lucas deserves the chance to live out his.”

“Yeah, but what lifespan is he going to live? His, or yours? He might survive, alright—he might live forever.” Abe scowled at him. “Which means you’re gone, for real. Not much of a plan, Henry.”

“Abe…” He didn’t want to burden his son, but he needed him to understand. “Look, I don’t want to die. I have grown to love my life here, for all its oddities. I’ve come to care about the people in my life.” He left Jo’s name unspoken, but Abe smiled slightly in understanding. “A parent always hopes to be able to protect their child—and yes, I know you’re not a child, Abe, but to me you are, and you always will be—and the one treasured gift immortality has given me is the ability to be here for you. We’ve been able to share more life together than most parents and children, and I’m grateful for that.”

Abe’s brow creased, and he pursed his lips with a slight shake of his head, the beginning of a denial, but Henry leaned closer, not allowing him to back away.

“I don’t want to die, but if I do… I will have lived a life more rich and varied than I ever expected or deserved. I’ve been blessed with you, your mother, with countless other people and experiences. I can’t find it in myself to resent the possibility. What will happen, will happen.”

Abe’s eyes glistened, and he pinched the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes.

“Jesus, Dad.” He swallowed, and Henry leaned forward to grasp the hand resting on Abe’s knee. Abe gripped him tight in return, his joints grown thick from arthritis, hard and knobby but still strong. “I know it’s selfish, but damn it, I don’t want to lose you.”

“Nor I, you, Abe.”

Abe cleared his throat a few times before he spoke.

“You know what this means, right? Lucas is going to have to physically die.”

“Yes.” Henry pursed his lips. “I’ll have to convince him it’s the right course of action. I’m sure his own sense of self-preservation will help him arrive at the same conclusion.”

“Henry, you have to tell him.” Abe squeezed his hand tight. “You have to give him all the information, you can’t make this decision for him without letting him know there might be a chance you’re not going to die. Or…or what might happen to him.”

A creak startled them both as the door to the house opened. Henry and Abe both straightened in their chairs, releasing their hands and looking around.

Lucas stood in the doorway, and he shoved his hands in his trouser pockets. He leaned against the doorway as though he didn’t have the energy to stay upright. With Henry’s facial hair growing long again, once more threatening to become a full beard, his skin was even more pale and grey in contrast.

“The phone rang. You guys looked busy, so I answered it,” he said slowly.

Henry hadn’t heard it—indeed, they’d been so engrossed in their conversation that the world had tuned out. The automatic paranoia as to whether or not they’d been overheard reared its head, but Lucas was preoccupied with another thought. Lucas clenched his teeth, making the muscles in Henry’s jawline jump with tension.

“Who was it?” Abe asked.

“Jo.”

“At this hour?” Lucas nodded, staring at the cement tiles of the terrace floor. Henry stood, his heart beating faster. “Lucas, what’s happened?”

“Catherine Dunsmuir.” Lucas leaned his temple against the door frame and closed his eyes. “Witnesses saw her jump off the Williamsburg Bridge. She’s dead.”


	20. Chapter 20

Lucas stared up at the ladies in white dresses and their frozen watercolour parasols. The painting in Henry’s bedroom was growing on him after a week of periodically waking up under it.

Tired and numb, he’d collapsed into Henry’s bed last night fully clothed, guided there by a body that only wanted its own bed. When he split off to live his own life again, what would become of these automatic reflexes? Would Henry’s habits fade eventually, or would he wander around in a haze at the end of a long day looking for a bed that didn’t exist?

Lucas rolled onto his side and tucked into a fetal position. He didn’t want to think about it.

The landscape of Henry’s bedroom hadn’t changed, other than that he’d become part of it. The sideboard dresser cluttered with knick-knacks faced him, and amongst the treasures without stories, sat Abe’s mother’s portrait.

He rolled out of bed to get the picture and brought it back with him to the bed, lying back to hold it above him and stare at her face. Black and white, vaseline-lens photography, the proto-Photoshop treatment of days gone by. He put his fingertips over her smile, bright and perfect, over the round of her cheeks.

She was important—really important. She’d died when Henry was a kid, but she was an injury that hadn’t properly healed. Henry’s body held her loss like an arthritic joint that pained him, or a broken bone poorly set. The suffocating ache in his chest was already an old friend, and Lucas mourned her loss without knowing anything about her.

Her, and Henry’s late wife, whose memory sat in the same well of grief. Lucas had scoured the bedroom for a picture of her, but there wasn’t one. It didn’t make sense, but Lucas didn’t hold out much hope for Henry explaining it.

On the table next to him, Lucas’ phone buzzed. He put the picture flat on his chest and reached for the phone. A text message.

_What’s your weekend like? Working again? -S_

Lucas groaned and flopped his head back on the pillow.

He should text Sabrina right back and tell her he wasn’t going to see her again. Get it over with, not keep the stupid dream alive. He picked up the phone again to do so, but instead he ended up scrolling back through their conversation.

He’d been talking with her every day. Cute stuff, like her cat, Eddie—short for Edward Davis Wood Jr.— who she talked about a lot. They went over dozens of movies they both had seen, bouncing back and forth trivia questions in friendly competition. He only stumped her once, and the next day she’d messaged him and rambled on about it, having managed to find things even Lucas didn’t know.

It was the only thing keeping him going. Every time it all got too much, he’d shoot her a message, and she’d respond with a winky face or some quick joke, and it lifted his spirits enough to get him through. It wasn’t fair to keep doing this, though. It was pointless; it wasn’t going to go anywhere, and all he was doing was getting more attached and making it hurt more in the end.

He lingered for another minute trying to think of what to say, but ended up typing, _yeah, I am. Crazy month. Sorry :(_

He let the phone clatter onto of the picture, both piled atop him and crushing him despite their flimsy weight. The phone buzzed loud on the frame with Sabrina’s responding text, but he couldn’t bring himself to look at it.

What was he supposed to do now?

Lucas wasn’t sure if he fell asleep or if he was so braindead that he stared at the blank ceiling, but it amounted to the same; several hours passed before he pried himself out of bed. He carefully replaced the portrait on the dresser and went out of the room.

He had no idea how this was supposed to work. Was he the Assistant Chief Medical Examiner now? Did he have to get Henry to sign over his apartment to him, or should he move? Finding a good apartment in New York wasn’t easy, and he didn’t want to give it up, so it would have to stay in his name lest he risk losing his lease.

It wasn’t just Sabrina Lucas had to cut off—it was all of his family, all of his friends, his job, hobbies, clubs, every single contact in his life, from the brand new to the lifelong. He’d put things off all week via email and text, but eventually he’d be forced into making a decision. Did he drag it out, trying to stay in text contact until they tired of him endlessly making excuses for never seeing them, or did he cut ties completely and start a new life with a new face?

Moving to New York had been hard enough, and he’d had dozens of friends from home in the city that he hung out with almost daily for the first few years. What would it be like to try and start fresh with nobody?

Henry was up and dressed when Lucas emerged, somehow none the worse for sleeping on the couch last night, and mysteriously awake and perky this early in the morning. Most times Lucas had slept over, Henry had been sacked out for a good few hours past him, both of them firmly into opposing circadian rhythms, despite their own personal habits.

Lucas wouldn’t be starting a new life with only a new face. He’d be starting a new life with a collected assortment of ingrained habits and feelings that weren’t his. How would he ever know who was living his new life—him, or Henry?

Henry was hovering near the coffee pot. He poured Lucas a cup immediately and offered it when Lucas rounded the corner.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Henry shifted on his feet as Lucas took a sip, and gestured to the table. “A proper breakfast this morning. We could both use the fortification.”

Henry had made a full spread, with eggs and ham, brown beans and toast, and what looked like artisan marmalade and fancy cheese. Lucas slid into the offered seat with Henry opposite him. There was no place set for Abe.

“Abe went out early this morning,” Henry offered. “He has a calisthenics group that goes for walks in the park on Tuesdays.”

“Hm.” Lucas took in the big breakfast and set his coffee next to his plate—his stomach had curdled around the single sip, and he wasn’t sure he could eat. He forced a smile anyway. “Wow, this looks amazing.”

Henry gave him a nod of thanks as Lucas shook out his napkin—flip and swoosh, Henry’s automatic snappy habit. Lucas paused, head hanging to stare at the blue napkin across his lap. Across Henry’s lap.

Nope, _his_ lap. These were his legs, his hands, his everything; forever and ever, amen.

He could distinctly remember first seeing Henry in action. Cool dude, great style, flair for the dramatic, working the morgue like he owned it. More than a boss—he was a king. A remote ruler, cool and smart and handsome, the kind of guy people wanted to be, or be with. Or both. Then he got to know Henry, and it was even better—he was weird, and he owned it. He never cared what anyone thought, never gave a damn, just did his thing and looked good doing it. Back then he would have sold his soul to be Henry, with his British charm and his fancy cognacs and hot detective maybe-girlfriend.

Today, Lucas would give anything to be himself. He’d walked in Henry’s shoes, and this odd, lonely life wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, no matter how square and perfect Henry’s jaw was, no matter how smart and smooth and collected he was. Lucas had never realized how rich and full his own life was until he couldn’t be part of it anymore.

Lucas could understand why Catherine jumped.

He picked up his fork and shoved at the eggs. He knew he had to eat, but he really didn’t feel like it.

“Lucas, we should talk.”

For the first time in days, Henry spoke with his own accent, the words crisp and formal in Lucas’ voice.

“Didn’t know you could still do that.” They sounded like a period drama, the two of them sitting here having this mope over breakfast, sharing joint custody of Henry’s accent.

“It takes effort, much like when we tried to imitate each other at first.” Henry set his silverware down alongside his plate. His breakfast was also untouched. “We need to discuss our next course of action.”

“Sure, I guess so.” Lucas focused as he spoke. His own accent returned to him, but it was more jarring than letting Henry’s flow out of him, so he stopped. “I think I have to quit the morgue. I dunno if you want to stay—you can, if you want. You’ll have to keep pretending to be me, but whatever. If you want my life, I guess it’s yours. I don’t think I can keep being you, though.”

Henry licked his bottom lip as he looked away in thought. His mouth opened silently once, twice, as though trying to find any words at all. Lucas couldn’t stand looking at his own face caught up with indecision, and he stood up from the table.

“Thanks for breakfast. I’m going to go into the morgue and pick up my stuff from my locker.” Lucas looked down at the quickly congealing food, and grabbed the piece of dry toast. He could probably manage that. “And I’ll sign off on Catherine’s body, close up the investigation.” It should be him—someone who knew why she’d died.

“I’ll come with you.”

Lucas nodded, and Henry got up to clear the failed breakfast from the table. Try as Lucas might, he couldn’t convince himself it was really time to move on, and he was grateful to have his own body at his side a little longer, no matter who was in charge of operations.

 

***

 

The moment they set foot in the building, Henry was trapped once again in Lucas’ endless social entanglements. He was prepared for the high-five and brief banter with Sasha, the security guard at the front, but in short order he was out of his depth.

They’d caught a flood of staff on the way out of the morgue. Lucas had taken full advantage of Henry’s aloof status to nip through the crowd and escape, leaving Henry to muddle through half-understood conversational gambits with people streamed past him. Only Tara Pascal, the blood spatter analyst, stuck around long enough to realize he was planning to miss the upcoming event. She very efficiently cornered Henry, and he had a devil of a time fighting down Lucas’ instinctive flustered responses so he could answer her coherently.

“But it’s Carl’s retirement lunch,” Tara said, mystified. “You organized it.”

“Yes, I know.” He had not known, as social functions in the OCME were far outside his purview, and under normal circumstances he would not have joined the staff for the celebratory luncheon for Carl, the retiring EMS worker. “Dr. Morgan asked for my help, and I can’t get out of it. If I’m done in time, I’ll join you.”

Tara looked past him to the bank of refrigeration cubicles for the bodies, where Lucas now stood over the extended slab.

“Do you think Dr. Morgan would want to come? I know he doesn’t normally do these things, but…” She bit her lip as she leaned towards Lucas and lowered her voice. “Do you know if he’s okay? He’s been weird—I mean like, _actually_ weird, not his usual. He’s not taking it out on you, is he? He’s normally great, but he’s got you working all the time, Lucas. We’ve been getting kind of worried.”

So their inconsistencies were apparent to everyone, even casual acquaintances and colleagues. Henry smiled soothingly and shook his head.

“Thanks, but no, it’s fine. It’s a busy time with the current case, that’s all. I’ve been helping with some of the legwork.”

“Sure,” Tara said with a hesitant nod. She pulled her purse over her shoulder, and then blinked up at him. “Oh, um, how did it go with…Sabrina, right?”

“It went well. She’s,” he searched for some of Lucas’ vernacular, deciding on, “very cool.”

“There, see? I told you you’d find the right person!” Tara beamed with joy and patted him on the arm.

Henry puzzled at the overly enthusiastic response for a moment, and then came to the conclusion that Lucas must have attempted to court Tara at some point in the past, and she’d refused him. Bless Lucas, he certainly cast his net wide.

“If you get a chance, come down and join us.”

“Thank you, I’ll try.”

To his credit, after Lucas’ knee-jerk romantic responses to the women in his life, he proved to be a loyal friend who was in turn respected and cared for. An admirable trait.

Tara was the last to leave the morgue, and then it was empty but for the two of them. The required masquerade, performed without Lucas’ assistance, had left Henry wound up and on edge. He couldn’t blame Lucas for avoiding the situation as Henry botched up with the people Lucas cared for. Henry went to the refrigeration room where Lucas stood over Catherine Dunsmuir’s body and quietly took station opposite Lucas.

He gazed down at Catherine’s inert features. She lay on the extended pallet of the refrigeration unit, skin macerated due to time in the water after her death. Her strawberry-blonde dyed hair was stringy and clumped from the river water against her pale, clammy whiteness. Her back had broken in the fall, and she’d drowned within seconds. She hadn’t suffered long.

Or, rather, she’d ended nearly three months of suffering.

He wishes they could have helped her, that they’d chased after her. What would have become of her if she’d lived? Hospitalizations, treatment, never able to admit what caused her distress without being suspected of further psychosis. She’d have been trapped in yet another endless nightmare, one Henry had lived out before. A few times in his life, only the fact he didn’t have the option kept him from taking the escape Catherine had chosen.

Lucas tore his gaze away from Catherine’s face and focused on the clipboard in his hands. He scrawled Henry’s signature on the death certificate. It put to rest Geri Glasser’s death along with Catherine’s—it was only half the story, but Henry and Lucas would remember them.

“I guess that’s it,” Lucas said. He tucked the clipboard under his arm and clasped his hands in front of him, a move that Henry recognized from his own body tics, one Lucas had inherited.

“Yes, I suppose so.”

Henry closed the door to the refrigeration unit and caught his distorted reflection in the polished stainless steel handle, a tiny twisted funhouse mirror version of Lucas. He’d spent a long time this morning looking in the mirror trying to see if he’d aged. The haggard stress of the week sat heavy on Lucas’ features, and though the dark circles beneath his eyes added the appearance of years, there was no obvious way to tell if Lucas’ body was aging, not in such a short time.

Since he woke early this morning, he’d been running words over and over in his mind. He had done his best with Jo, and she’d still barely accepted his immortality—at first skeptical, then suspicious, then wishing to put it aside. How would Lucas manage, when the truth might mean a curse laid on Lucas’ shoulders? Henry’s t-shirt was damp with sweat all down his back as he followed Lucas into the main morgue area.

He had to start somewhere.

“We have options, Lucas.”

“Yeah, I know. Too many.” Lucas opened a drawer at his usual workstation and pulled out a few papers and odds and ends. He popped them into the legal box he’d grabbed from storage, the movements spiritless and sluggish. “I’ve got a few bucks saved, and I’ve thought about travelling. If you want to look on the bright side, we can kinda do whatever we want. No strings attached, right? New lives, fresh starts.”

Henry circled around to face Lucas and catch his distant, wandering attention.

“No, Lucas, that’s not what I mean. I mean we still have a way out of this, back to our own lives.”

“Yeah, sure, when one of us dies eventually. Sorry to break it to you, but pretty sure all our ships will have sailed by then.”

“Then we shouldn’t wait.”

Lucas stared blankly at him, and another bead of sweat trickled down Henry’s back between his shoulder blades. He took several deep breaths to calm his racing heart, and hoped the swirling dizziness would settle.

“That’s not funny, Henry.” Lucas resumed packing the box, tossing things in with unnecessary force.

“I’m serious. We can kill my body.” Lucas stopped what he was doing and stared at him. Henry soldiered onward. “Lucas, it’s obvious what this condition does to people, what it’s doing to you. We need a solution now.”

“Yeah, let’s just murder you. Great solution.”

“No, the situation is more complex than that…” He stumbled to a halt, tripping over his excuses. Damn, this was so bloody _hard_. “If we kill my body, there’s a good chance I—“

“It’s simple, Henry—if I die, _you_ die. And then what? I spend the rest of my life knowing I killed you? I don’t want this, but I _really_ don’t want to be a murderer.”

“You don’t understand, Lucas,” Henry started again, but Lucas threw the box back down on the counter, rattling the contents.

“Yeah, I do!” Lucas stabbed a finger towards the fridge room. “Never mind that I don’t want to murder you—did you hear Catherine? She _died_. She felt the entire death, and then she came back anyway. Can you imagine what that must be like?”

Three times Henry had died from a gunshot to the head. First the jarring pressure, and the deafening crack of the fracturing skull. The world spun as equilibrium shattered, and then a cascading shutdown of senses until nothing was left. And his first death was a gunshot—but a bullet to the chest, like a giant’s fist slamming into his ribs; excruciating, radiating pain, and then numbness as he fell back, his last conscious memories of cruel hands grasping his arms and legs, hauling and dragging him out of the ship’s hold and tossing him overboard.

Some deaths lingered more than others, according to the terror that accompanied them. It would be Lucas’ first death; how long would it linger in his mind?

Would it be the first of many?

The bright lights of the morgue were too much, the space too expansive and revealing. He hadn’t meant to do this here, but he couldn’t stop now, had to push forward before his courage failed him.

“Lucas, I want you to understand, that whatever happens—”

“Whatever happens, we’re both going to be here to see it.”

“Stop.” Henry circled around the bench and took Lucas by the shoulders, holding firm the body that could be his, or might be Lucas’ for all time. “You need to listen to me, because this is important. I think it’s possible that we can switch back, and both of us will survive. And if not…” He gulped, forcing down his gorge. “If it doesn’t work, I need to you to understand there may be some repercussions that go far beyond death.”

Lucas frowned up at him with a narrow, suspicious look that manipulated Henry’s features into sharp lines.

“What are you talking about?”

Henry released him and took a step back, but his feet were already on the path and he couldn’t retreat now. When Jo had waited for his answers, Henry had worn a trench into the floorboards as he paced around the store, fingers brushing along the edges of tables, his agitation spurring him on lest he shed the tears blurring his vision. Now he paced away from Lucas, clasping his hands together to keep them still. He had to say something; Lucas waited for his response.

Before he could think of how to form his thoughts, the morgue doors opened. Tara Pascal poked her head through. She grimaced in apology towards Lucas.

“Hi, Dr. Morgan—do you think we can borrow Lucas for a minute? Carl Chalmers is downstairs, we figured Lucas could get in a quick congrats before we head off to lunch.”

Henry’s hard-won resolution punctured and deflated at the interruption. He looked round to Lucas, who was caught with indecision. He nodded slowly.

“Yes, of course,” Lucas said with growing confidence, and he shot Henry a significant look. “I believe Lucas has a joke he’s been saving to tell Carl.”

“I do?” Henry blinked at him, blindsided.

“You do. Remember, your competition to see who can come up with the most risqué joke? You were doing research. Two weeks ago you tried it out on me, and I think I even cracked a smile. A little one, but it was definitely there. You remember, the one about the three guys and the horse—“

“Oh, yes,” Henry said, quickly cutting him off. It had been memorably vile, but Henry had kept a straight face—or thought he had—and had a good chuckle to himself after Lucas left. Lucas’ eyes were pleading, and it was easy enough to… and allowed him to put off the inevitable just a few moments longer. Perhaps he would come up with the right way to frame this. “Lead on,” he said to Tara. Over his shoulder he called, “I’ll be right back, Dr. Morgan. We can finish up then.”

“That’d be a good idea.”

He would have a few minutes to gather his wits, and then he would have to terrorize Lucas while revealing everything about himself.

In the meantime, as he followed Tara and responded without really listening to her small talk, he tried to recall and sort out the details of the joke in order to prepare his delivery. There was something about a series of buckets…

 

***

 

Lucas packed the last of his few belongings into the box and paced as he waited for Henry. He quickly got sick of listening to the repetitive clicking of fancy dress shoes on the tile floor and went to hide in the office. He had faith that Henry was going to deliver the joke better than Lucas would have managed, but it rankled to have Henry off chatting with his friends and being the fancy, improved version of Lucas Wahl while he hid in here, alone and planning to slink away from Henry’s life.

As he paced he stripped off the jacket, tie, and vest, and threw them carelessly over the desk. For good measure he untucked the dress shirt and let it hang. Finally feeling comfortable, Lucas relaxed into the desk chair. Lucas was so tall that normally every chair was a compromise, either too low down, or the back too short or tilted awkwardly, but the desk chair was a perfect fit for Henry’s body.

Like his bedroom, the office was a microcosm of the eclectic weirdness that was Henry Morgan. Antiques pulled from various time periods, odd books on medical practices that were long out of date, and mementos that meant nothing to anyone but Henry.

And, in a small gilt frame, tucked next to an ornate old wood and brass office supplies organizer, a picture of Abe’s mom. Lucas had never noticed it before, small and mixed in amongst the other items on his desk, but there it was. It was tucked on his desk like a family photo, like—like it was his wife or kid or something. Lucas picked it up. It was different from the one in Henry’s bedroom, a snapshot of her in a dress with flowers; she was a little older, maybe late thirties, sitting for another posed portrait.

To look at her hurt with an odd bittersweetness, and yet he couldn’t look away.

He needed this to be over.

Henry tried to tell him they could end it, that Lucas could go back to his own body, his own life. Henry would die and it would be okay because of some kind of twisted nobility.

Was it because of this ugly grief inside him? Was Henry tired of carrying it?

Did Henry want to die?

A shuffling noise caught Lucas’ attention. He expected to see Henry at the office door. It was Jo.

“Glad I caught you,” Jo said.

 _Great._ This was the last thing he could deal with right now. Lucas held the photo to his chest, over his pounding heart, over Henry’s massive scar, over the five thousand secrets housed inside him.

He hadn’t considered how to say goodbye to Jo. Probably would have asked Henry to draft a note, and left it for her while he snuck away. Selfish, maybe, but how did you break up with someone when you—or the person you were pretending to be—wasn’t even dating you? Most of Henry seemed tied up in people who were dead, and as far as Lucas could tell, the only living connections Henry had close to his heart were Abe—and he got to keep that one, the lucky bastard—and Jo.

Facing her had the same kind of bittersweet pain that the photo gave him. Losing Jo was going to hurt Henry a lot.

“Well?” Jo said. She didn’t look very happy with him.

“Uh, I’m sorry,” he said, getting up from the chair. Where the hell was Henry? “This really isn’t a good—”

“Don’t even try it.” She tucked her thumbs into her jeans pockets and tipped her head to the side. Whether it was on purpose or not, she was directly between him and the door. “Sit down and start talking.”

He sank back down into the chair, which was just as well; his legs had turned to jelly. He relaxed his hold on the photo still pressed to his chest like a shield and put it back on the desk carefully.

Jo tracked the action and her mouth tightened.

“What is going on, Henry?”

She came over to him, pushed aside his clothes abandoned on the desktop, and perched on the edge. She was invading his space, and abruptly it turned from confrontation to intimate conversation, which was way more terrifying. It fired up all the impulses he had to touch her, like he _had_ to touch her in order to feel alive, like she was the first day of warm sun on his skin after a long and grey winter. What Henry felt for her—it wasn’t sex; it was so much bigger than that, so much deeper and frightening and hard to understand.

He knew he shouldn’t do anything stupid, but Henry had kissed Sabrina, and maybe if he and Jo—

“What are you and Lucas doing?” Jo said. “Did you tell him?”

It took Lucas a few seconds to process her question over the roaring tumult in Henry’s body and his own confusion. Tell him what, that Henry had been secretly married? That his nefarious plans with the pugio had failed? Lucas was pretty sure that Henry had a lot of stuff he’d never told Lucas.

“Tell him what?”

“Seriously? That you’re… you know.” Jo huffed impatiently when he stared at her without response, and she threw up her hands and let them fall heavily to her lap. “Okay, fine, that you’re _immortal_. Henry, I do believe you, you know. It’s just…” She shook her head with a sidelong embarrassed look at him. “It still sounds too weird to say it out loud.”

Immortal. Well. That hadn’t been his first guess.

“Ah. I—um.” Lucas couldn’t quite wrap his brain around it, but she seemed pretty convinced of what she was saying and very serious. He shook his head slowly and hoped he didn’t look as bewildered as he felt. “No. No, I definitely did not tell Lucas that I am immortal.”

Jo picked up the framed picture from her desk and turned it over. Her expression softened, and she carefully set the picture down facing them.

“Is this is about Abigail?”

Abigail? Lucas looked to the picture in surprise. He thought Abe’s mom was named was Sylvia.

Jo waited, but when Lucas didn’t respond, she leaned forward and put her hand on his shoulder.

“If you don’t want to talk to me, fine, but I think you should talk to someone. You don’t need to mention dates or names to talk to a counsellor. Henry, you just found out your wife died violently. It doesn’t matter if that was thirty years ago or not, it’s huge.”

Why was every conversation with Jo like a multi-car pileup? One revelation after another slamming into him, and none of it making any sense. Henry was…what? Immortal? His wife died thirty years ago? He was grateful for the hand on his shoulder steadying him.

“I don’t want to overstep,” Jo continued, “but you are not coping. You look like hell. I haven’t been able to get a word out of you in a week. I’m this close to calling it in, because—and I can’t believe I’m going to say this—your immortality is not the point here. You’re not above the law, and you’ve been sneaking around the edges of this case like you were on the last few investigations. I ask you questions, and you make excuses and run, or throw Lucas in the way. You _promised_ me this was going to change. I know you’re keeping something from me, and you dragged Lucas into it _again_. I have no idea what’s going on with the two of you right now, but—“

As Jo lectured him, Lucas stared at the picture. Abigail. Abe’s mom. Abe’s mom, and Henry had loved her—deeply. Henry had lost his wife. Abe’s mom, Henry’s wife, gone in the same week. Gone thirty years ago, a violent death. The bits and pieces swirled around until he came to the obvious truth: Abe’s mom was Henry’s wife.

Henry was… immortal?

“No fucking way.”

Jo stopped mid-sentence with her jaw hanging open.

“I—what?” She blinked at him uncertainly, pulling her hand back.

“Are you screwing with me?” he asked. He stood up, and his ears were ringing. This had to be a joke they were playing on him. One long setup, and this was the punchline.

“What?”

“Henry told you, right?” A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth as he willed her to give up the game. “He got you to come in here and screw with me. Come on, admit it.”

“What are you talking about?” She slid off the desk and stood, and she put a hand on his arm and squeezed his bicep. “What’s going on? Henry, talk to me. Now.”

Henry’s proposition came back to him—killing Henry’s body, thinking they might be able to switch back and both live. But that wasn’t all he said.

_“There may be some repercussions that go far beyond death.”_

If Henry was immortal, and he was Henry…

“Am _I_ immortal?”

Jo’s mouth closed with a snap as she stared at him. He’d said it with his own American accent. She obviously had no idea what to make of him. She wasn’t kidding around, didn’t know anything. She was just here talking to Henry about the things they normally talked about—his immortality, his dead wife from decades ago, his secret criminal dealings and murder attempts, his nervous breakdowns.

Why couldn’t they talk about their feelings, and like, kiss and stuff, like normal people?

Oh my god, Henry was _immortal_.

Lucas started to laugh.

A movement flashed in the corner of his eye, and Lucas looked up to see himself on the other side of the glass wall of the office. Henry was very obviously deliberating whether or not he could run for it before he had to face them.

“Henry!” Lucas called out through his wheezing giggles. “Guess what? You’re immortal!”

Seeing Henry’s blind panic on Lucas’ face made it all the funnier. Lucas collapsed into Henry’s chair and closed his eyes, his stomach hurting and tears rolling down his cheeks as he laughed.


	21. Chapter 21

Henry slouched in one of the guest chairs in his office. Lucas sat in the other, finally done his giggling fit and drooping with exhaustion once more.

Jo, perched on the edge of the desk, faced them like an authoritarian teacher hearing the confessions of her wayward pupils as Henry told her the story of Catherine Dunsmuir and Geri Glasser, of their secret investigation, and the summary of their unsuccessful attempts to return to their own bodies.

The longer Jo’s silence stretched, the more he felt like an ass, barely able to meet her eye. He should have never let this happen—though he wasn’t sure if that meant telling her the truth in the first place, or having done better to avoid this situation.

“So,” Jo drawled. Her attention wavered between them, and then she settled on him. “Henry?”

Lucas didn’t even bother to look up; he was busy staring at Henry’s hands, turning them over front to back like they were foreign objects—like immortality was a thing stamped on his skin. All pretence was past, so Henry straightened in his chair.

“Yes, Jo.”

Jo held her breath as she looked him over, and he saw himself reflected in her eyes; Lucas sitting before her, his hands in his lap and hang-dog contrition bowing his head, speaking to her with Henry’s accent.

“You’re telling me our victim— _victims_ —were switched like this. Catherine Dunsmuir essentially committed suicide twice.”

“That is the concise summary, yes. They were trapped for three months. I think Catherine believed she could never return to her life, or live with what she’d done to Geri Glasser.”

Jo made a small _hmph_ as she took that in, and her gaze slid over to Lucas, whose bewildered attention had shifted to Henry. He was goggling at him, jaw slack and eyes narrowed. Concern pulled the edges of Jo’s mouth down.

“Lucas…” She stopped, and she shook her head. “No, this is too weird.”

Lucas finally broke from his stupor, and he rolled his eyes at Jo.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. Woo-hoo, we’re in each other’s bodies, _cra—azy_.” He shimmered his hands in the air as he dragged out the word. “Old news. Little hung up on the ‘Henry is immortal’ part here.”

Henry winced. The bald-faced statement sent a thrill of fear through him. Automatic excuses instantly queued up.

“When Jo said immortal…” Henry started, and then faltered.

The truth of his immortality hung over Lucas’ head as much as Henry’s. He’d already decided to tell him, but that made it no easier; in fact, it was all the harder with Jo’s hawkish gaze on him. She’d been the recipient of his first ham-fisted attempt at the truth in seventy years, and she’d been unable to speak to him for a week afterwards. How was Lucas going to take this, when he couldn’t escape it?

Lucas shifted in the chair, leaning on the arm towards Henry.

“How old are you?”

Henry glanced to Jo, who had lowered her gaze to the floor between them. No help from that quarter.

“Two hundred thirty-five years and counting.”

“How many immortals are there? Do you have a secret society?” Lucas’ eyes widened, and he continued in a hushed whisper. “Are you human?”

“Yes, Lucas, I’m human.”

Once, he might have bristled at the question, desperate to hold onto his humanity and not lose himself to insensitivity and carelessness. Now, it only made him tired. There were days he definitely didn’t feel human, being so far outside the modern world. However, he had to smile at Lucas’ intent, nearly reverent interest.

“You’re taking a lot on faith,” Henry said. “I can’t say this is a topic that is usually so easily accepted.” Unbidden, he glanced again to Jo. She looked up and narrowed her eyes, as though daring him to judge her reaction. “Doubt would be reasonable,” he added. “Very reasonable.”

“Yeah, well. I am currently hearing this story through _your_ ears, in _your_ body. I’m ready to believe anything. Besides, if anyone was immortal, it’d be you.” Lucas was quiet a moment, and Henry heard him shifting in the chair. “Speaking of which—if I’m in your body, am I immortal now?”

“That is the salient question in all this,” Henry said, keeping his tone conversational. “It is why I suggested we kill my body. I think that has the best chance of replicating the conditions under which Catherine and Geri switched back, but possibly allowing us both to live.”

“So what are we talking here? Eternal youth? Keeping popping back up every time you die? Live forever until someone cuts off your head?”

“Yes, yes, and—and no.” Henry steadied himself. Lucas deserved the full truth. “Whenever I am killed, I do come back. However, so far as I can determine, nothing can kill me permanently.”

Lucas blinked several time.

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“So if this doesn’t work, if we don’t switch back…” Lucas’ voice failed him.

The truth was starting to set in now, and Henry could see it in the falling expression, the nervous swallow.

“But it’s possible that _I_ am still immortal,” Henry said quickly. “That I may cease to age in your body. You might grow old, as normal.”

“But then I…” Lucas gulped several times. “I’m you. Until I die. Or until I never die.” Lucas stood on shaky legs. “Um, I need… I uh—I’m…”

Lucas started to pace in a weaving circle, moving aimlessly through the office as he put together the magnitude of what Henry was saying, stuttering out a series of half-formed words that never quite resolved into sentences to communicate meaning.

It was too easy to remember that moment when Henry had finally come to understand that his curse was permanent, when he’d had to accept the years stretching before him, when the last bit of hope flickered out. Tears stung at his eyes as he keenly felt Lucas’ distress.

“So—so you knew this?” Lucas turned to Jo, flinging a hand at Henry. “Like, he’s just walking around like Lazarus and you kept a straight face the whole time?”

Jo shook her head.

“He just told me last week.”

“He told you he’s _immortal_.” Lucas repeated the word, spitting it out, his accent waffling back and forth between his own American one and Henry’s as his distress grew and his concentration slipped, letting Henry’s physical habits automatically take over. “That he’s been going since the 1800’s and is gonna Energizer bunny his way straight on through until—what, _forever_?”

Lucas’ voice was rising to a sharp pitch, loud and carrying. Henry got to his feet and raised his hands peaceably.

“Lucas, shush, please—“

“Shush? Are you kidding me? I can barely take the idea of another day stuck in here, and you’re telling me it’s never going to end?” Lucas gave a disbelieving scoff and pressed his hands to his chest. “I’m stuck with all these things in your body, like I remember what you feel, and it hurts. I look at pictures of your wife, and it’s like someone cut a hole in me. I can’t look at _Jo_ without it hurting. Everything hurts, and I’m gonna go crazy, Henry. I’m not like you, I can’t do this! And you want me to die, and it might not even work, we’ll just see what happens? And then you—you die, and I’m… This isn’t… I can’t…” Lucas choked, hyperventilating, and he made an agonized noise as he clenched a fist in the fabric of his shirt and backed up.

“Lucas—“ Henry tried to reach for him, but Lucas flinched back, shaking his head violently.

“Forget it. I can’t do this!”

Lucas shoved the office door open and fled through the morgue. Henry stood uselessly watching his own body run away from him.

Behind him, Jo was standing with her hand pressed to her mouth, eyes large.

“Well,” Henry said with a sigh. He tucked his hands in the pockets of Lucas’ jeans, and his fingers brushed the comforting shape of his pocket watch. “As you can see, it could have gone worse when I told you.”

“You weren’t telling me I might be immortal at the time,” Jo said quietly.

“No, I suppose not.”

Henry sat back down in the chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. Jo was worrying at her lip as she looked out the office to where Lucas had run off. She shifted to stare at him silently, at the positioning of his limbs, at the tilt of his head, scanning him over like she wasn’t sure if she believed him or not.

“It is me,” he reassured her.

“Yeah, I can tell. I mean, I _see_ Lucas, but when you talk—it’s like a messed up game of Telephone,” she said with a hint of a smile. “Now that I know, I kind of feel stupid for not seeing it earlier. I knew something was off, but…” She shook her head and sighed. “I’m starting to wonder if police detective was the best line of work for me. I’m about as observant as a brick.”

“You’re an intelligent person working within a logically formed world view. You can’t be faulted for not leaping to supernatural conclusions. I wouldn’t have survived a free man this long if I hadn’t been able to rely on that common human blindspot to hide me in plain sight.”

He’d told her so little of his life before Abigail and Abe—a brief summary of where he’d gone and when, a very tame version of how he became immortal. The rootless years, the times when superstition was stronger and he had to be more careful, the mistakes he’d made that had led to discoveries, the running… He’d left those stories alone. He’d had so little time to talk to her, and the story was so big. She didn’t know most of it.

However, despite Jo’s frustration, she was incredibly keen, especially now that she knew what to look for. He looked back down to Lucas’ casual tennis shoes on his feet to avoid her sharpened inspection.

“I’ll give Lucas some time, then speak to him again. Once he’s had a moment to think, he’ll listen. It’s our only option. I don’t know what the outcome will be, but if the pattern repeats, Lucas will at least be able to carry on living out his life.”

He’d left the second half of that scenario unsaid—his possible demise—but Jo followed it through.

“So, you might…”

“I might die,” he finished for her. “Yes.”

She breathed out slowly and swallowed before she spoke again.

“Is there something else you can try first?”

“We don’t know what else to do. Catherine and Geri waited for months. According to Catherine, the previous victims may well have been stuck for decades. Neither case seems to have ended well.”

“I thought you were having a nervous breakdown.” She tilted her head to the side, a small nod of confession. “Though not the first time I’ve wondered.”

“Fair enough. You’ve not had much reason to credit my mental stability this past year.”

“This wasn’t an isolated freak-out, was it?” She gestured towards the morgue where Lucas had made his departure. “Lucas isn’t doing well.”

“No. It’s why we can’t wait. It would be cruel to keep torturing him like this.”

“Or you,” she added. “It’s not just Lucas in this situation, Henry.”

Her obvious concern and gentle empathy was a swift blow to his resolve. A ripple of fear washed through him head to toe and he sagged into the chair a little more. His own exhaustion from several sleepless nights was beginning to tell.

“There aren’t many times when I am completely outside my realm of experience. I am frightened,” he confessed, with some difficulty. “Though I am resigned to whatever may happen, be that my continued existence, or—or not.”

Jo nodded, lips pressed together. She closed her eyes briefly, and he knew his words had wounded her. The truth hurt, lies hurt; there were very few ways to spare her.

“So what do we do?”

He didn’t miss the _we_ in her words. Once again, the guilt washed over him.

“You can step away from this—you’ve no obligation. I severely abused your trust. Again,” he added reluctantly.

“Yeah, you did.” She tucked her hair behind her ear, not quite looking at him.

“I’m sorry, Jo. You have every right to be angry with me. I truly thought it would end quickly, that it wouldn’t be relevant, that—“

“We’ll talk about that part later, okay?” she said, with a firmness that closed the matter. “Right now, we figure this out.”

He accepted her decision with a nod, and despite it all was grateful for her stolid support. Later might not come, and he would not squander her friendship in the meantime.

“Then I believe the first task will be finding Lucas,” he said, “and convincing him to die.”

Jo stared blankly at him, then shook her head with a disbelieving snort.

“God, Henry. Your life is never dull.”

“I promise, I have had more dull, boring times than I can describe,” he said with a grin. He stood and stretched Lucas’ long body, which had stiffened from sitting in the too-small chair for so long. “This last year has been…unusually full.”

“Henry,” Jo said hesitantly.

“Hm?”

She paused, and then appeared to resolve herself, as though determined to get through what she had to say whether she liked it or not.

“I’ve been thinking about what you told me, how many times you,” she got stuck momentarily, but soldiered on, “you’ve died, and about Abigail, and—and now this. You come to work every day, you pretend like nothing’s wrong…”

She never made through to the question in that thought, but her concern was touching. He smiled at her gently and came to stand next to her where she sat on the desk.

“It’s not all been bad. I met you. You’ve made me want to be part of the world again. I haven’t felt that way in over thirty years.”

She blinked at that, and looked up at him—into Lucas’ face. She didn’t look away this time, and instead searched his features for the person she was speaking to. Apparently she was satisfied he was in there, because she didn’t avoid his gaze. However, her sad disappointment was a bitter pill.

“I wish you’d trusted me.”

“I wish I had, too,” he said softly. She was far more than he deserved. “It’ll be a regret I always carry with me.”

He took her hand and held it. She squeezed tight, her large brown eyes full of pain he wished to kiss away. He knew he couldn’t, but it didn’t stop him wanting.

Then Jo’s eyes darted away from him, and her mouth turned into a round ‘oh’ of shock. She dropped his hand like it was on fire, shoved him away, and leapt to her feet.

Behind Henry, on the other side of the office’s glass wall, Detective Hanson was backing up frantically, shaking his head like he desperately wished he wasn’t there.

“Sorry,” Hanson mouthed silently through the glass, hands up.

“Oh my god,” Jo exclaimed, and she leapt from the desk and pushed past Henry. “Oh my god, Mike! Mike, _no!_ ” she shouted at him as she ran to the door. “No, it’s not—“

“I don’t wanna know!” Hanson shouted over his shoulder, hurrying away. “Don’t need to know. Catch you upstairs later.”

“Mike!”

Jo was out the door pursuing her partner, who put his hands over his ears like a child as he hustled away while Jo dogged his heels, stuttering excuses that she certainly wasn’t involved with Lucas, nor was she likely to be any time soon.

Henry, alone in his office, broke into a wide grin and laughed, his heart lighter than it had been in a while, even with what lay ahead of him.

 

***

 

In theory, this was all really cool. Immortality was real, and Lucas’ boss was the proof. Over two hundred years of kicking it Henry Morgan-style, living the eternally young and handsome life. Neat-o.

In practice, it was a complete crap sandwich. _Being_ immortal, and in someone else’s body? It was all way cooler when it was less personal.

Lucas couldn’t think past the giant weight pressing on his chest and clouding his thoughts, but he kept moving forward, driven onward. The city went past him in a blur of subway transfers as his mind revved in neutral, screaming but stationary.

The future had always been little more to him than a blurry haze where he might have less student debt and could afford to buy better stuff. Now the future was forever. The only way out of it, not even a guaranteed out but only a _possibility_ , was to die. Question was, what his life would be like when he woke up—if he woke up at all? Would he be immortal, or a murderer? Or would this all work out like Henry thought?

He didn’t want to die, he didn’t want to _not_ die, and he didn’t want to stay like this. What the hell was he supposed to do?

Lucas charged into the antiques store, flinging the door so hard it smashed on its hinges. He’d come here like a homing pigeon, Henry’s legs carrying him to what he perceived as safety. Is that how Catherine Dunsmuir had ended up back with her husband when things started to fall apart on her? Is that why, when Geri told her that she was unilaterally deciding to abandon Catherine’s life for good, Catherine decided that the best way was to end her life permanently?

He pounded down the stairs to the laboratory, found the farthest, darkest corner and sank into it, his back to the join of the two walls.

This was Lucas’ limit, however; this is where Lucas Wahl got off the train for a stop in Crazy Town. Henry’s body could do what it wanted, he didn’t care anymore, and so Henry’s voice whined something about this not happening, Henry’s fists dug into Henry’s eye sockets as he curled into a ball. Not at all dignified, completely wrong for a guy who could take anything, including two hundred years tooling around the planet.

“Hey, Lucas. Shh, it’s okay. Come on, deep breaths. Slow it down.”

Abe. Abe, who was the safest thing Lucas could think of, even though Lucas barely knew him. Didn’t matter—Lucas wasn’t in charge. He was somewhere else watching Henry’s body melt down while he sat back dispassionately watching the whole thing like a spectator. Abe repeated himself, and the instruction settled in somewhere between his mind and his body, and he sucked in a full breath and held it.

“That’s better.” Abe grunted as he sat next to Lucas on the floor. “So. Rough day?”

Lucas wrapped his arms around his knees and rested his forehead on them, keeping his vision dark as he concentrated on breathing. Abe rubbed his back in steady circles, then pet the back of his head like Henry had done when Lucas had lost it in the bathroom. Lucas had cried more this week than he had done in the past year, if he didn’t include the Gilmore Girls marathon this winter. He figured a guy was entitled to some hysterics when fundamental laws failed on you, but it was getting a little embarrassing how many times Abe and Henry had scraped Lucas off the walls. Guess they had a little more practice than he did.

 _“This is not the strangest thing he’s had to contend with,”_ Henry had said about Abe, ages ago when they’d first stumbled into the store—back when Lucas thought this was a fun adventure, and not a nightmare he couldn’t wake up from.

“You know, don’t you.” Lucas spoke into the protective hollow between his body and legs, and Henry’s voice was muffled and distorted in the pocket of space. “All those questions about being immortal. You know about Henry.”

Abe’s hand stopped. He patted him a last time and withdrew.

“Yeah. I’ve known for a long time.”

“How’d you find out?” Abe was silent, and Lucas snorted. “C’mon, nothing’s gonna surprise me now.”

“When I was a kid. He and Mom told me when I noticed Dad never aged in our family photos.”

It took Lucas a while to parse what Abe meant by that. He lifted his head and squinted at him, the dim lights of the basement bright after hiding in the dark for so long.

“Henry’s your dad?”

“Yup.”

“Okay, fine. You surprised me.” He rubbed at his eyes and yawned. “Guess that makes sense, though. Your mom and his wife—same person?”

“Yeah. Abigail.” Abe smiled at him, full of gentle apology. “I’m sorry you got mixed up in this, Lucas.”

Lucas stretched his legs out and leaned back against the wall. Sweat had soaked into the thin dress shirt and cooled, and he shivered as all the adrenaline deserted him.

“Did Henry tell you what he wants me to do?”

“He did.”

“Why would he want to risk it? Why would he want this, why…” He closed his eyes. He didn’t even know what he was asking.

“This has the best chance of success, Lucas.” It was a non-answer, and Abe didn’t sound wholly committed to the statement.

“What if he doesn’t come back? What if he’s just… dead? I don’t want to kill Henry.” Abe was silent, and Lucas belatedly remembered that this was Henry’s son. He opened his eyes and rolled his head towards Abe. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—“

“No, no. We talked about that, too.” Abe folded his arms with a heavy sigh. “Look, I’m in my seventies, and Henry talks more about figuring out his own death someday than acknowledging what’s going to happen when he inevitably outlives me. I don’t want to give you the wrong idea here, I think Henry wants to keep living his life now. He said he does, and I believe him. He’s lived a long time, though. If he said goodbye now, I think he’d understand it.”

“It’s not good, is it, living forever?”

“Some days, it sounds incredible. Time isn’t going to hold you down; the only limits are your imagination.”

“Not all days, though.”

“No.” Abe laced his fingers together in his lap. “But you won’t be alone if you have to figure it out. We’re not going to abandon you, Lucas. And it doesn’t matter how much time passes—there’s always good people in the world who will love you and support you. Don’t ever let yourself forget that.”

The quiet implication was that Henry did forget. Was Lucas going to end up like this, with an elderly son facing his own mortality, a woman he pined for but was afraid to have, and pictures of the dead he loved like they were still with him? God, he hoped not.

He felt even worse for wishing it back upon Henry, though. Death or never-ending immortality—hell of a choice he had.

“This is so messed up,” Lucas muttered.

“Yeah, it is. But no matter what happens, it won’t be your fault. You didn’t ask for this. Let Henry help you out of it, if he can. You can’t sit around in limbo wondering.”

“I dunno, Abe.”

“Lesson one on immortality: you might have all the time in the world, but no one else does.”

“That’s not very reassuring.”

“What I'm trying to say is, sometimes doing _nothing_ is worse than doing the _wrong_ thing. Seize the day, take the plunge, blah blah blah. Know what I mean?”

“Right,” Lucas drawled as Abe stood up with a grunt of effort. “How does Henry do with that one?”

“He’s still working on it.” Abe offered him a hand, and Lucas took it and pulled himself up. “After all, there’s gotta be some room for improvement. He’s already insufferable, can you imagine if he were perfect? No one could ever live with him.”

Lucas chuckled, and Abe wrapped an arm around his shoulders, guiding him.

“Come on, kid. Let’s get you upstairs.”


	22. Chapter 22

Henry, Lucas, Abe, and Jo sat around the living room picking at the takeout Chinese food. Henry sat, feeling as stripped bare as after his reawakenings, with an untouched container of steaming noodles in his hand. It was like a wake; goodbye to pretences, odd reminiscences, strange mixes of emotions waxing and waning as the evening rolled on, each of them reacting in their own way to the business ahead of them.

Opposite Henry, Lucas shovelled food into his mouth while Jo stared at him, fork loaded but hanging in mid-air, watching what looked like Henry demolish a container of lemon chicken and rice while wearing skinny jeans and a t-shirt that declared _“Trust me, I’m a Doctor,”_ with an old London police box printed cock-eyed beneath the words.

Lucas glanced up long enough from his food to notice Jo’s bemusement, and he tilted the takeout box towards her.

“Did you want some?”

“Uh, no, I’m good.”

“I know, it’s bizarre, isn’t it?” Abe had his feet up on an ottoman and he waved the glass of wine in his hand towards Lucas and his incongruous behaviour. “But the really weird thing is when you get ‘em excited or distracted, and they start doing each others’ little habits and stuff.”

“Abe, we are not wind-up toys,” Henry chastised, but Lucas made a noise of disagreement around the chicken he was cramming into his face.

“Naw, but it’s cool sometimes,” Lucas said around the mouthful. “I can do Henry’s signature if I cross my eyes and think about something else while I’m holding the pen.” Lucas pointed a chopstick at Henry. “Which reminds me, you paid for dinner. Figure with a few centuries of savings and a pad like this, you can afford it.”

Lucas redirected the chopsticks to the table, where Henry’s credit card lay amongst the detritus. Henry would have been annoyed if he weren’t so grateful for the hot dishes waiting for him when Jo brought him home. Abe had coaxed her to stay, and now they were in this odd small-talk dance, with Jo alternately staring at Henry and Lucas, Abe working his way through a bottle of wine as he grinned at all three of them, and Lucas eating like he might never have another meal again.

Henry’s initial hunger had faded as he spun through the logistics and possible outcomes. Killing Henry’s body was the right course of action; Lucas deserved to return to his own body, whatever the repercussions for Henry. However, what he’d told Jo was still true: he was afraid. A swift death, if it came, would rob him of a great deal. Years with Abe that he coveted, for he didn’t want to miss a moment of Abe’s life. Nor time with Jo, whose gentle good humour had helped him heal. He was still working on that healing, but her example, her ability to move on, gave him hope.

And Lucas. For years Lucas had been another tool in his belt for performing his job—at times a cross to bear, at others an unexpectedly loyal assistant. Lucas was more than that now; his naive, pure enjoyment, his network of connections to life, his unabashed ability to care, to love, to throw himself into the lives of others because he couldn’t bear to be alone, had seeped into Henry. It made him miss the vibrancy life could contain.

As a young man, Henry’s father had dubbed him an incurable social butterfly. His free hours were spent in the gentlemen’s club, or courting women whenever he could until he met Nora, and the rest spent caring so deeply for the patients he saw through his practice. The world had been alive, and Henry’s heart always full with the people around him. Over a century and a half later, when Henry had been a father and a loving husband, even that quiet, private life had held a myriad connections to other people.

He’d let all that fade away, until there was only Abe left—and possibilities he was too afraid to explore.

He had much he could learn from Lucas.

“Doing okay there, Henry?” Abe asked as he poured himself another glass of wine.

“Yes, of course,” Henry said. Abe’s cheeks were red, and his movements bore the languid relaxation of a glass too many. “And you, Abe?”

“Me? Yep. I’m having dinner with not one, but _two_ people who know my dad’s immortal, and no one’s been arrested, cried, or tried to flee the country. Seventy years and that’s never happened before. Pardon me if I feel like celebrating.” Abe leaned back in his chair and put his feet up once more, crossing his ankles and waving his glass to encompass them all.

“I never tried to arrest him,” Jo protested weakly, though Henry knew it had been a near thing until he’d explained himself.

“I’m finished crying for now,” Lucas said, and picked up another white paper container with vegetables in it. “I can’t squeeze out another drop until I tank up.”

Henry allowed himself to slip into Abe’s good humour, forcing himself out of his melancholic reflection.

“And I’ve not tried to flee the country in over six months,” he added with mock offence.

“A record,” Abe shot back.

Henry chuckled, and Lucas leaned forward.

“Seriously, though. How many places have you been?” Lucas asked.

Henry glanced to Jo, who appeared interested in his answer as well, and so he obligingly rolled back through far too many memories. Where did he begin? Chronological order, or an east to west geographical list? Either way, it was daunting to catalogue.

“It might be easier to tell you where I _haven’t_ been,” he said finally. “I’ve yet to visit Chile, though I did round Cape Horn—that was before the Panama Canal was built. If I’d waited five years I could have saved myself the miserable journey. I’ve had no opportunity to visit Antarctica, so I can’t claim to have set foot on every continent.” He skipped through the years, combing through paths not taken. “I did travel through Vietnam, Thailand, and Myanmar, but I didn’t have a chance to go farther west to Nepal.”

“I didn’t know that.” Abe frowned at him.

“It was during the 1990’s,” he said simply.

“Ah.”

It was all that was necessary to explain himself. Henry had travelled extensively while he was based in London, wearing out countless pairs of shoes as he tried to outpace his grief over Abigail’s loss. In the end, it hadn’t worked. He’d come back to New York when he’d finally gotten his head out of his ass and recognized how many years of Abe’s finite life he was missing.

“Whoa.” Lucas put down the container. “That’s totally crazy.”

“Two hundred years to do as you will is a long time,” Henry said with a shrug. “I was passing through most places; the world is still much bigger than even I’ve had time to explore. If you’re asking where I’ve made my home…” He considered the answer, and it whittled down to surprisingly few. “London. Spain for a while, near Madrid. New York, of course. I keep coming back, ever since the first time in 1876. It continues to evolve and change, but it always feels like home when I return.”

“How long do you stay?” Jo asked.

She was focused on Lucas again, on the profile she associated with Henry. Looking to see if he’d aged in the time she’d known him? Wondering what he’d look like older? No—wondering how much longer before he would leave.

“Ten years.” That seemed such a final, blunt decree, so he added, “Fifteen, if I can manage. I’ve become quite adept at greying my hair and progressively aging my dress and appearance if I wish to make it last.”

Lucas rested his elbows on his knees and put his head in his hands with a moan.

“Holy crap. When I said I might like to travel someday, this is so not what I meant.”

“Lucas, you won’t be forced into any of this.” Henry set his container of noodles down on the table, declaring dinner a lost cause. His appetite was long gone. “We will kill my body, and you’ll be returned to yours.”

He said it with ultimate confidence, but the idea of Lucas’ spirit being bounced right back to Henry’s reincarnated form was as likely a possibility as any, and success was not guaranteed. Lucas’ disbelieving curled lip told him that Lucas was as aware of the unpredictability as Henry was.

“Sure. Just gotta die first.”

“It’s not so bad,” Henry said, doing his best to put some optimism in his tone.

“There’s something you don’t hear every day,” Jo muttered.

“What do you even call this?” Lucas asked. “Like, what’s the categorization for this kind of death? What would I be writing down on my hypothetical death certificate—murder, euthanasia? Suicide?”

“Execution, I suppose,” Henry mused. “Certainly not suicide, I wouldn’t ask that of you. I’ve done it, and it’s awful every time; much easier to have someone else take the final action for you. In our lines of work we most often associate sudden death with violent ends, but there are painless, less emotionally traumatic methods we can use. Lethal injection is the first that comes to mind, though gas is a viable alternative—like suffocating, but without the panic. You can be sedated first so there’s no perception of the final moments. But, there is peace in such easy deaths; it isn’t wholly unpleasant, once you’re past the instinctive fear response—”

Abe cleared his throat and pulled Henry from his thoughts.

“Henry. Go easy on the newbies.” He tipped his head towards Jo and Lucas.

Jo was grey with shock, while Lucas had a hand on his stomach, gaze unfocused and mouth twisted up unpleasantly.

“Sorry,” Henry said. He rubbed damp palms on Lucas’ jeans. “Lucas, all I’m saying is that when we _do_ kill you—“

“Oh my god,” Lucas blurted. He put a hand over his mouth and leapt from the couch. He pounded down the hall, and they heard the sounds of the bathroom door banging open and retching.

Jo looked torn between going after Lucas and leaving him to his privacy. Abe swirled the wine in his glass with an unamused grunt.

“Hadn’t considered puking,” he said, and raised his glass in a toast to Henry. “Doing a hell of a job so far, Dad.”

Henry tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling. They needed to do this and get it over with as soon as possible. Waiting and discussing the inevitable was doing nothing but distressing them all. He sought out his pocket watch again to check the time, and flipped it open with practiced ease. Late, but not late enough to minimize the odds of witnesses for his appearance in the water.

Not the he was convinced it mattered.

“You okay, Jo?” Abe asked.

“Yeah.” She didn’t look it, however. “So, if this goes as planned…”

“We’ll be picking up Henry from the river,” Abe finished for her. “Which reminds me, gotta add towels to the list.” He put down his wineglass and dropped his feet to the floor. “I’m going to put together a bag and throw it in the car.”

Abe left for his mission with exaggerated focus and determination. Abe would deny it if Henry tried to broach the subject directly, but he was upset. The possibility of this being Henry’s last night was getting to him, too. Henry wished he could spare Abe all this, could spare _all_ of them this.

And worse, he wasn’t sure which outcome he wanted. To be himself again, to grow old in Lucas’ body, or to die, to _finally_ die… He’d been so bent on revenge when he’d gone after Adam that until the bullet was slamming into his chest, he hadn’t considered the full ramifications of a real, true death.

Now, he had nothing but time to think, and it was still impossible to know.

“And if this doesn’t work?” Jo folded her arms on her knees and leaned forward, speaking to Henry softly now that they were alone.

“If it doesn’t work, then I don’t know. We may stay as we are, I suppose.” _Or not._ He turned the pocket watch over and over in his hand, the engraved grain of his family crest passing over Lucas’ skin, the sensation not quite right but growing familiar. “Jo, whatever happens, I need you to know that…“

Despite his resolve, his control over Lucas’ voice slipped and it cracked. This was his last chance to apologize, and to properly say goodbye, if it came to that. He cleared his throat to try again, but she held up her hand.

“I know,” she said.

The quiet reassurance soothed the guilt, the shame. He would accept her caution, but he didn’t want her to doubt what she meant to him. Jo, who’d been victim to the same loss as Henry, who’d healed and taken the brave leap and made herself vulnerable to him, who’d left the door open for a closer relationship if he wished it—she was, like Abe, an unshakable pillar of support, a model of open-hearted bravery. He couldn’t help but love her.

He managed half a smile.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes until Lucas reappeared in the living room. He gave the leftovers on the table a queasy look, and then ran his hands through his hair, fluffing the curls into an out of control mess.

“I’m ready if you are. If you think it’s gonna be okay, then I’m with you. I trust you, Henry.”

“Then I will do my best not to let you down.” Henry stood and offered Lucas his hand. Lucas grasped it tight. “Give me some time to prepare, but we can do this tonight.”

Both of them held fast a moment longer than was necessary—every time, connection with their own bodies was difficult to relinquish. Finally Lucas released him and backed up, giving Jo a little wave.

“Sure, yeah. I’m going to go send a few emails and stuff, and…” He shrugged, avoiding their gazes. “Holler when you’re ready.”

Lucas left again, pulling the cell phone out of his pocket as he bowed his head to tap at the screen. Henry turned back to Jo; her lips were pursed and her gaze faraway as though she were lost in thought.

“I’ve got some things to prepare,” he said. “I’ll make sure Abe lets you know the outcome. I’m sure it will—”

“I’m not leaving.”

Evenly said, steady; not an objection, but a statement of fact. She would not let him exclude her again. He didn’t know if it was duty or devotion, but either way it was beyond what she should have to give.

“There’s no need for you to see this.”

She twisted her mouth to the side in a grimace, and then shook her head as though she’d arrived at a decision.

“Maybe this makes me the dumbest person in the world, because I’m constantly throwing myself against the same brick wall with you, but let me try and get this through your incredibly dense skull—or Lucas’ skull, whatever.” Jo stood and gazed up into his face, not batting an eye at the incongruity of seeing Lucas rather than Henry himself. “I don’t care how weird, how messed up, how completely out there it is, I’m _here_. I’m your friend.” She set her hands on her hips, both impatient and kind, head tilted to the side. “So, it’s up to you, Henry. What do you want?”

Henry knew what he wanted—had wanted for some time now. He wanted her.

He wanted to throw caution to the wind and let himself love and be loved, to take her and everything she offered and hold it close to his heart and never let go. Abigail had told him time and again that life was not about the endings, but about the journey, and she was a beautiful path leading in an unknown direction. He wanted everything Jo offered him, and so much more.

But here and now, there was this evening, the task ahead, and a chance to not do it alone. What did he want?

“I want you to stay,” he said softly.

Jo let out an unsteady breath. She’d truly not known what his answer would be.

“Good. Then I will.”

He had too much to say, and so said nothing. He only beckoned for her to follow him as he turned for the stairs.

“We’ll do this in the laboratory. If you’ll be willing to assist Abe, he knows what to do. We can get everything set up.”

Jo looked a little overwhelmed, but she followed him with her usual aplomb. It felt very right to have her at his side.

 

***

 

Lucas lay on the stretcher in Henry’s laboratory staring at the ceiling, hooked up to a full monitoring system that beeped softly with each throb of his racing heart. He didn’t know if it was completely disturbing or totally cool that Henry was capable of assembling a fully operational, humane execution chamber within a few hours.

Over him, Henry buzzed around, setting up drip bags from stands and making all the connections tight and secure. It was like seeing himself if he’d decided to keep on through school into the medical program, instead of taking a turn to work with the dead folks who didn’t need doctoring anymore. He never regretted his choice, but seeing Henry’s self-assured confidence channeled through Lucas’ body was a nice window into what could have been.

There was no reason why he couldn’t be like that. All he had to do was believe in himself, right? He was good at a lot of things.

One of the things he was _not_ good at, however, was lying still and waiting to be put to death. It’s not like that was a skill you could practice up on.

Unless you were Henry.

Lucas had sent all his goodbyes; nothing specific, but those one-liners you sent after a few too many, where you got into the mushy _“really glad I know you and you’re in my life”_ kind of thing. If he was going to disappear, he at least wanted people to know he cared.

He’d had a message waiting from Sabrina, asking him how he was managing with his busy week. He’d considered it for a long time before crafting a careful reply.

_a little better every time I hear from you. -L_

The fact he couldn’t see her made him want to all the more, and each ping of his phone had been a little burst of relief, something he could pretend was normal. If this didn’t work out, he’d have to break it off with her. If it did work out, he was going to show up on her doorstep as soon as she would have him, and he was going to take her on a proper date.

He just had to die first. Oh god, he was going to _die_.

A large hand settled on his shoulder, and his own face leaned over him.

“It will be alright, Lucas.”

“How do you do this?” he blurted. “How do you be brave?”

Henry’s expression was kindly, somehow turning Lucas’ features into those of a doting grandparent.

“Lucas, you already are. Bravery isn’t fearlessness; it’s facing your challenges even though you are afraid. You are one of the bravest people I’ve met.”

“If by that you mean I’m always afraid, then yeah, maybe,” Lucas said. He tried to laugh, but it sounded more like a sob. No amount of reassurance could ease the fight or flight response swirling through him.

“Steady on, Lucas. We’re almost ready.” Henry patted him and moved away again.

Lucas clenched and released his hands to give himself something to concentrate on so he didn’t leap up and run away. He rolled his head to watch Henry move around, and a plastic evidence bag set on Henry’s desk caught his eye—the wooden baton. The stupid thing that had started all this. If they hadn’t touched it, none of this would have happened. Then what? Would it have lain in wait for other people to find it?

A hand took his, and the stretcher shifted as Jo sat down next to him by his hip. He looked up at her. His chest was hurting from how hard he was breathing.

“Hey,” she said softly. “Don’t worry. We’re here.”

“Jo, that thing,” he said quickly. “That piece of wood that switched us. Whatever happens, can you make sure it’s destroyed?”

Jo followed his gesture to the item in question. She nodded and looked back down at him.

“Yeah, I will. When you’re both back to normal, we’ll roast marshmallows while we burn it, okay?”

She smiled at him, and the knot in his chest relaxed a fraction. He blew out a breath, looking up at the ceiling again.

“There.” Henry stood next to the stretcher on the opposite side from Jo, with an IV in his hand. “Lucas, you’ll be sedated first—I promise you won’t feel a thing. You’ll wake up in your own body. My body will be gone, as it disappears whenever I die and I reappear in the water. Jo, you’ll call Abe and alert him when it’s complete.” Abe was already at the river waiting. It was midweek and nearing three in the morning, and therefore the quietest time they were ever to find in New York. Henry looked to the IV in his hand. “And, should it not go as planned, all you need to remember is to start swimming. Abe will take care of the rest.”

Lucas gritted his teeth and swore up and down he wasn’t going to freak out again, but it wasn’t until Jo squeezed his hand hard, steady as a rock, that he could control it. He had no idea how she did that. The world could be ending, and Jo Martinez would give it the side-eye and put it back in line.

“Ready?” Henry asked.

“No.” He sighed as Henry looked at him curiously, and he shook his head. He wouldn’t feel it. He wasn’t going to die feeling the terror and hopelessness that Catherine Dunsmuir felt; he wasn’t going to die like Geri Glasser, without the chance to understand what was going to happen, or the chance to say goodbye. “Yeah, I am. Go for it.”

The needle pricked as it slid into his arm, and he winced at the burn. The sedative started to flow into him as the machine beeped along with Lucas’ racing pulse.

“Count backwards from one hundred,” Henry said, his eyes on the monitor next to the stretcher.

“Henry?” Lucas looked up at the soft expression, the hair that Henry had combed to Lucas’ style, as Henry tilted his head to look back at him.

“Yes, Lucas?”

“Thanks for everything.”

“Indeed.” Henry took his free hand, and he smiled. “And thank you. For more than you can know.”

Lucas closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight…”

He counted until his attention wandered and he couldn’t remember where he had left off. The beeping faded, a hum of voices from far away—and then nothing.

 

***

Lucas’ counting slurred and then stopped as his breathing grew even, and his hand went slack in Henry’s. His pulse slowed from its frantic rate a minute later. He was completely under the thrall of the sedative, unconscious and locked inside until death would ultimately decide whether or not to keep or release him. All that was left was Henry’s unresponsive body.

Henry took his slack face in his hands and peered at it. It might well be the last time he saw and touched his own body. He put his hand on his chest, over his heart where the scar sat from the bullet that started this all. The chest rose and fell, the heart was beating—everything was there and waiting for him to return, if this arbitrary magic worked. His immortality came with set rules, why shouldn’t this?

However, Henry’s immortality broke the rules of this game; what would the unknown arbiter decide on their outcome?

“What now?” Jo released Lucas’ hand and put it gently on the stretcher, delicate and slow as though she might wake him.

“The injection.” Henry took the syringe to inject the IV with the poison he’d assembled from his stores. “It will only take a few minutes for his—my—heart to stop. Upon the instant of brain death, my body vanishes.”

His hands shook, and it took some doing to steady himself.

“Do you want to die?”

Jo’s question stayed him.

“When you told me the truth, and you showed me your journals,” she continued, her voice low and hoarse, “it was all about how to die. Years of experiments, trying to figure out what it would take. Is this…. Is this what you want?”

He bowed his head, trying to give as true an answer as he could, even without truly knowing the answer himself.

Was this how he wanted it to end?

“No,” he finally said.

Jo raised her head to look up to him. He took in her pale features, her dark hair, the lip that trembled despite her attempts to stay dispassionate in all this.

“No, if I could choose… All I have ever wanted is a normal life, Jo. Live, grow old, and someday have it end. Nothing extraordinary. One, finite life.” He smiled at her. “But I don’t want it to be over yet.”

Before she could say anything, before he could second-guess himself, he injected the contents into the IV flow to Lucas’ arm. Translucent, it was invisible amongst the saline and sedative. Jo sucked in a sharp breath as though to protest, but no words followed. He put the syringe down on the cart next to him, and it rattled on the stainless steel tray.

Henry looked around the laboratory a final time. In the archival boxes stashed under the stairs, his oldest possessions from his mortal life; in cabinets, on shelves, books and equipment from his career as a doctor throughout changing scientific times—and yes, the desperate and clinical scribblings of a man pursuing unachievable mortality. More recent acquisitions of furniture and decor throughout, little bits and pieces of himself, lay scattered in dots and dashes. Though Abe wasn’t here, busy waiting by the river with a stern warning not to let it take so long this time, his presence was here in this home that had been theirs for nearly five years. Here, too, Lucas and Jo; two people who meant something to him in this new life of his.

Jo tidied the rumpled hem of the t-shirt on Henry’s body. It was impossible to think of it as Lucas now, when no trace of him could be seen—but nor was it Henry. It was an empty shell, and all they could do was wait to see whose it would become.

“I don’t think I ever really understood what it meant,” Jo murmured. “You die, and then you come back. It’s not magic. It’s death. It’s real, isn’t it?”

“It’s real.” Henry reached across the stretcher and took her hand to stop her idle fidgeting. “But in between, I live. This is part of who I am, but it’s not all I am.”

“I barely know anything about you, Henry.”

“But you know who I am. You know _me_.”

For all his lies, he’d shown her more of himself than anyone since Abigail. He hoped she knew he’d done his best to be genuine with her.

The machine hooked up to Henry’s body faltered in its steady rhythm as the heartbeat dropped. Jo’s eyes widened and she leapt off the stretcher, automatically responding to the stuttering pulse, the coming death, even though it had all been planned—it was impossible to disregard the natural instinct. Even Henry, having faced death countless times, couldn’t bring himself to give in to it peacefully. Jo hovered over the failing body, uncertain what she should do, if anything.

The monitoring device beeped once more, then droned long and loud. It was happening faster than Henry expected. Fear leapt up and caught him by the throat.

Death; he dreaded it every time. He met Jo’s wide eyes.

“Henry, I—“

But he didn’t hear the rest of what she said. He was yanked back from the world, swallowed whole by the darkness. He fought it, but it was inescapable, powerful and endless. He had no idea whether or not this would be his last moment.

But, as far as deaths went, at least it was painless.

Jo’s terrified expression was the last thing he saw as he sank down, and then Henry was gone.


	23. Chapter 23

The screaming monotone blare of a very unhappy heart monitor machine pried Lucas out of unconsciousness. He blinked and opened his eyes, only to find himself confronted with the same sight as before he fell asleep: the laboratory ceiling. He blinked again as his sluggish brain came back online.

His vision rattled. Jo was shaking him. Her hair trailed down to tickle his nose, and she patted his cheek firmly—more of a slap really, and his head _really_ hurt—and he was sure it wasn’t the first time she’d done it. She had a cell phone tucked against her shoulder with her other hand.

“Lucas?” she said again.

He wasn’t sure what was going on. Had they not done it? Had they changed their mind and woken him up? Oh god, no—he was still exactly where he’d gone to sleep.

_It didn’t work._

Lucas sat up quickly and pain speared through the left side of his head.

“Ow, what the hell?” His own voice sounded loud and muffled through his head. He jolted in surprise as he twisted to make sure Henry wasn’t behind him, and another crack of pain. “Ah!” he protested as he put his hand to his face.

It was definitely his voice, but no one was here. Him and Jo, that was it.

Jo lifted the phone to her ear.

“It’s Lucas. I think.” She pressed the phone to her chest again and stooped to peer at him like she was doing an eye exam. “You’re Lucas, right? Not Henry putting on an American accent?”

“Yeah, I’m—” He hissed and winced as he prodded gingerly at his temple, which smarted like he’d been punched in the face. “Where’s Henry?”

“Okay,” Jo said into the phone. “Thanks, Abe.”

Jo disconnected the call and shoved the phone in her back pocket. She knelt down next to Lucas—he was laid out on the floor next to the stretcher where Henry had been standing. He looked at his fingers, but there was no blood.

Fingers—wait. _His_ fingers. He opened and closed his hand dumbly, until Jo grasped it and coaxed him to standing.

“Before the… Before he—you…” She stumbled for the proper way to describe the action. “When Henry’s body disappeared, your body fell and kinda…um. Hit the table.”

“He couldn’t have sat down?” His hip protested as he got to his feet. “It’s like I got rugby tackled or something.”

He was a comfortable 6’4” above the ground when he stood up. For a moment there was the lightheaded sensation of being too tall, but very quickly his equilibrium shifted back to the normal state he’d always existed in. This was his body, and all his senses instantly knew it. He patted himself down, over the pullover sweater and dress slacks Henry had bought and insisted on wearing, despite their douchiness. But he didn’t care—this was his body, aches and pains and prep school clothes and all.

Lucas bounced up and down a few times, then stretched his arms in the air. The sore shoulder and hip were nothing serious. He manipulated his features, and even the ache in his head was easy to forget about as he touched his own face.

“I need a mirror,” he said. “I need—yes!”

He scrambled past Jo and caught his reflection in the glass case housing a series of little carefully labeled sample bottles next to Henry’s desk. His own face stared back at him with its usual expression. _His_ expression, not Henry’s. He opened his mouth and closed it, squinted up his eyes, even wiggled his ears to make sure he could still do it.

“I’m back,” he whispered, and then barked a laugh in disbelief. “I’m _back!_ ” He pumped a fist into the air as he whirled around, intent on grabbing Jo and hugging her until she couldn’t breathe, but she was leaning on the stretcher, head bowed. “Jo?”

Her eyes were red and her face blotchy, and she was shivering slightly. She shook her head slowly.

“His heart stopped and he disappeared.” She picked up one of the leads that had been stuck on to monitor cardiac activity. “It’s like he was never here. I don’t understand how—how is it…” She dropped the lead again. “This happened, right? I didn’t imagine all this.”

Lucas rotated his sore shoulder, rubbing at it absently.

“Not unless I’ve been violently hallucinating for the last week,” Lucas said. “I’m not completely ruling it out. It’s been a really, really weird week.”

Jo pulled her phone out again and checked it, mouth pinched.

“Damn it, Abe. _Call_.”

“Henry’s supposed to appear right away, isn’t he? He said he was.” Lucas’ giddy relief faded, and he joined Jo in her concern. He went to the bed and touched it. There were rumples in the sheet covering it that corresponded to arms, legs, torso. No Henry. “He’s not there yet?”

Jo said nothing, staring at the phone. It trembled in her shaking hand.

“You think we can—“

“Drive down there?” Jo finished. She was already digging her car keys out of her pocket. “Hell yes. I can’t sit here waiting.”

Lucas moved to trot after her, but his foot struck the ground too fast and he overbalanced. He staggered and caught himself on Henry’s desk before he fell on his nose—and a good thing too, he didn’t need another shot at a concussion to add to the pile. Jo leapt towards him and caught his arm.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. I think I got used to being shorter.”

Jo didn’t seem to know what to say to that, and he couldn’t blame her. Now that he was in his own body, and Henry wasn’t anywhere to be seen, it _was_ hard to believe any of this had been real.

She released him and turned to the stairs again.

“Come on, let’s go.”

 

***

 

Nothingness. Then—

Henry struggled for air, thrashing upward.

The water was so frigid it seized his muscles tight until his furious struggles got his body moving. The New York nights might be warming in last weeks of spring, but the river had not yet gotten the message. Henry leaned his head back and gasped as the icy water made his head ache, but he kicked his feet and gave another triumphant shout of victory to the sky even as his limbs went thick and numb with cold.

Every muscle and fibre of his own body responded to his whims with perfect obedience, every motion exactly as it should be. He pounded his fists against the water’s surface purely for the resulting splash, whooping a loud laugh.

It only took a few more seconds for his teeth to start chattering, and he was forced to head for shore. With precise, well-practiced strokes, he swam as quickly as possible. If all was well, Lucas was back in his own body with Jo standing watch over him, and Abe would be waiting for him.

Sure enough, the telltale headlights shone out towards the water from the spot where Abe met him more often than Henry would like.

Henry dragged himself from the water, and Abe scrambled down the rocks towards him, towel at the ready. He chucked it at Henry from a few feet away, and Henry snatched it in time to keep it from smothering his face. The action was simple; no careful gauging of limb length, no hesitation. He wiped off his face and grinned at Abe.

“What were you doing out there? Thinking of leaving us for a life at sea?”

“Never.” Henry scrubbed the water from his hair and wrapped the towel around his waist. Heedless of the cold, he caught Abe in his arms and squeezed him tight. “Abraham, I am most definitely ready to come home.”

Abe’s strong arms closed around him and pounded him on the back, and then he was brought back by the shoulders as Abe peered suspiciously into his face.

“Henry, right?”

“Yes, Abe,” he chuckled. “It’s me. You’ll not be rid of your father so easily.”

“Good. I finally got used to you.” Abe dug for his phone in his jacket pocket and pulled it out, adjusting his glasses to look at the screen. “I gotta call Jo. She told me Lucas was okay, but you hadn’t popped up yet. Guess when you add finding your way back from someone else’s body to the reincarnation act, it adds a little time.” He paused as he read the little screen, his features harshly lit up in the dark. “Huh. She and Lucas are on the way already. She sent a text a few minutes ago—they should be here soon.”

“At least I’ll have time to get some clothes on,” Henry said.

“Be a hell of an awkward night if she’s gotta bring you in for public nudity on top of everything else.”

They hurried to the car to avoid the risk of anyone else seeing them. There wasn’t anyone else on the waterfront at this time of night, and even the omnipresent hum of traffic over New York was quieter than the lapping of the river and the cutting wind, but they’d grown used to assuming the worst and were always on guard.

Abe started the car up to blast the heat while Henry scrambled into the soft NYPD-issue jogging pants and sweatshirt that had become an all-too-standard outfit.

“How is Lucas?” Henry asked as he scrubbed the last of the water from his feet to put on the socks and shoes Abe had brought. “Did he return to his body as expected?”

“That’s what Jo said.”

“Excellent,” Henry said. He slipped on the loafers and flopped back in his seat, able to take a slow breath at last. Every action had been thoughtlessly performed, his cold fingers warming up from their clumsy fumble to respond to his specifications without complaint. He put his hands to his head and combed through damp curls, then passed his hands over his cheeks. “I really need a shave.”

Abe leaned back against the door of the car, and his whole body shuddered as he yawned. Henry leaned over and patted his knee with a laugh. He was in irrepressibly good spirits, glowing and giddy with adrenaline.

“I promise I’ll try to relegate my demises to better hours from now on.”

“Or you could take a break from dancing with death for a while,” Abe countered.

“A much better plan.” Henry looked out at the cityscape twinkling back at them. “I’m glad to be back.”

“Are you?”

“Yes, I am.” Henry leaned over and pulled Abe to him so he could kiss him on the head. Abe grunted, and his eyes glittered in the dark when Henry released him. “Thank you for all your help, as always.”

“Eh, okay, okay. Not gonna get arrested for having a naked young man in my car—once was enough, thanks.”

The loose grit on the asphalt ground and crackled beneath tires, and headlight beams swung through the car cab to illuminate them both before they passed and shone out towards the river. A dark sedan came to a halt beside them on the driver side. Abe peered out his window.

“And there’s the police now,” he said. At Henry’s hesitation, he smiled and elaborated. “It’s Jo and Lucas. Go on, show ‘em you’re alive and kicking.”

Henry immediately got out, bearing the furious flutter of nerves. The passenger side door opened on Jo’s car and Lucas sprang out, straightening to his full lanky height.

“Henry?” He trotted over and stopped a foot away.

“Lucas?”

They stared at each other quietly a moment, and then Lucas grinned. He smacked his hands together with a loud clap, and then raised one in the air.

“Put ‘er up top, my man. I’d hug you, but I’ve had enough of your body to last a lifetime.” Lucas wrinkled his nose. “Number one on the top ten things you never thought you’d say to your boss.”

Henry obliged Lucas in a high five. His heart was full of affection for the young man, and he couldn’t contain his warm laughter as Lucas jumped in the air, fists aloft, bounding and whooping loudly. He’d done the same himself in the water, so he fully understood.

“Oh! Here.” Lucas dug into the pocket of his trousers and extracted Henry’s pocket watch, presenting it. “This is yours.”

The metal was comfortably warm, and it slid into his palm with its usual perfect fit. He flipped it open—closing on four in the morning—and then snapped it shut again. Every motion precisely as it should be. He flipped it over and smoothed his thumb over the family crest on the cover.

“This was my father’s watch,” he said, unbidden. A little thrill followed, the excitement of confession, of honesty, wrapped up in an apology for all the times he’d brushed Lucas’ questions aside. “He gave it to me before he died. I lost it for a long time, and my wife—Abigail—she found it again. She gave it back to me.”

“Cool.” Lucas leaned closer and peered at the watch with Henry. “Huh. I guess it’s not really an antique to you, is it?”

“Or we’re both antiques,” Henry said as he relaxed into Lucas’ easy curiosity. Lucas’ enthusiasm for the novel and interesting was a sympathetic match to his own.

Jo climbed out of the driver’s seat and caught Henry’s eye as she stared over at the two of them. Henry clapped Lucas on the back and tucked the watch into the pocket of his sweatshirt.

“I’ll be right back,” he said.

Lucas followed his gaze, and nodded.

“Yeah, natch. I’m gonna go run.”

Henry paused, momentarily stymied.

“Run?” he repeated.

“Yeah, run. At a reasonable speed, with reasonable length legs.” Lucas bounced a little as he backed up, his teeth flashing white in the darkness. “Good thing you live forever, Henry, because it takes you that long to get anywhere.”

And with that, Lucas turned and loped away down the boardwalk, head aloft and hair bouncing as his long strides ate up the distance.

Henry looked after him, smiling impossibly wide. Such an effortless thing, Lucas’ acceptance. For all Henry’s worries, he was now infinitely glad that his secret was Lucas’ to possess.

Jo’s footfalls alerted him to her approach, and he twisted around to her. She had her hands tucked in her jacket as she eyed him cautiously.

“You okay, Henry?” she asked.

“Yes. Yes, miraculously, it worked. I’m fine, and Lucas,” he gestured to Lucas’ rapidly diminishing form, still bounding at an energetic pace, “seems to be quite well.”

He turned back to her, and she nodded jerkily.

“Great. That’s good. It’s all back to normal, then.”

She sounded dazed, and Henry moved to cup her elbows in his palms, unable to take her hands as they were hidden away in her pockets. He peered into her face with concern, and she blinked back at him.

“How are you?” he asked.

“Me?” she said with a little catch in her voice. “Oh, you know. Not bad for a night of aiding and abetting an execution.”

“Thank you for your help,” he said softly. “It was nice not to be alone.”

“Yeah,” Jo sniffed, and her breath caught. “Any time.”

He smiled at her tentatively, and then the air rushed out of him as she pulled her hands from her pockets and caught him in a rib-crushing hug. Her body shuddered, and she buried her nose in the soft material of the sweatshirt. He rubbed her back and pressed a kiss to her head.

“You smell like low tide, Henry,” she laughed through a sob.

“Yes, I really do,” he agreed, smiling as he nuzzled her hair. “There are some drawbacks to this system.”

Jo laughed, again more tears than mirth, but she didn’t release him. Henry held her tight, and her warmth seeped into him and thawed his stiff muscles. He was fiercely, selfishly happy that she was here.

From this point forward, letting her go would be just as painful as losing his own body.


	24. Chapter 24

The first morning Henry woke up in his bed and his own body, he had a momentary confusion as to why on earth he was so fixated on the Monet above his bed. He’d always enjoyed the painting, it having been a sentimental acquisition as a remembrance of his time in Paris, but it had long since faded to the background of his awareness. And yet, having awoken early, he stared at the impressionist stylings of young women and their antics as though he’d been studying it without remembering. Odd.

A few other moments such as that stood out over the following days, and he quickly came to understand that they were little echoes of Lucas’ stay. The effect faded as the severed connections between his consciousness and body healed strong and true, until no trace of the switch remained but his memories.

Memories, and the irrevocably altered landscape of his life: Henry had not one, but two new trusted confidantes.

Lucas enjoyed his new status with insufferable smugness. Upon being returned to his body, Lucas’ dark mood vanished like so many storm clouds blown away, allowing the return of his youthful zeal. He wasted no time taking full advantage of Henry’s agreement to truthfully answer all his questions, which seemed to spring from a bottomless source. On their first day back at work as themselves Henry took Lucas aside, fearing that Lucas’ enthusiastic curiosity would bubble up whenever he imagined they were out of earshot of others—a dangerous assumption to make, Henry had learned.

“Lucas, I do trust your discretion, but I must ask—“

“Henry.” Lucas had patted him on the shoulders like a tolerant older brother. “I gotcha covered, dude.”

It was all that was required. Lucas acted as though nothing had changed, and though it took some time for Henry to accept it, nothing had. Or, only for the better; Lucas’ starry-eyed hero worship had faded, and he’d become a colleague—a friend—rather than a mere assistant.

The next day, Friday afternoon, a grieving Lazaro Molina collected Geri Glasser’s possessions, minus the strange wooden baton that sat in a locked cabinet in Henry’s laboratory, safely away from unsuspecting victims. Henry personally handed the remaining items over to Molina when he arrived.

Molina had the faint odour of liquor on his breath, and the circles beneath his eyes had become permanent fixtures. He took the box silently, not meeting Henry’s eye as Henry delivered his condolences.

“Mr. Molina,” Henry said after a pause. Lazaro looked up, and Henry took his curious silence as leave to continue. “As someone who has been where you are now… Please keep in mind that while Geri is gone, you’re not alone.” He nodded to the box, which contained the contact information for rehabilitation services for armed forces veterans. “There’s a phone number in there. Call it when you’re ready.”

Molina pursed his lips, and then gazed down into the box. After a few seconds, he pushed off the wall with a brusque nod.

“Thanks,” Molina muttered.

He walked away from Henry without raising his head, entered the elevator at the far end of the corridor, and kept his gaze downcast until the doors closed. Even so, Henry sensed the words had struck home. Molina’s climb back out of the bottle would be a slow one, but with luck he was ready to take the first tentative step.

As Henry re-entered the morgue he passed Lucas, who’d fallen into conversation with the young Dr. Pascal. Though Henry suspected Lucas’ crush on her had yet to fade, he was handling himself with a great deal more dignity than Henry had managed while occupying Lucas’ body.

“—Was horrible, Lucas!” Tara was giggling. “Carl repeated it at least ten times to anyone who’d listen. He almost got us kicked out of the pub. He says you win.”

Lucas caught Henry’s eye as Henry passed. Good to know the joke had landed well. Henry hadn’t run completely roughshod over _all_ Lucas’ friendships.

“Well, it’s all in the delivery,” Lucas said with a magnanimous wave of his hand. “Right, Dr. Morgan?”

The little jab was close enough to forbidden territory that Henry frowned at him, but Lucas only chuckled and returned to his conversation with Tara.

No wonder Lucas and Abe got on so well. They had much the same mischievous streak.

The paperwork awaiting Henry’s attention, built up over the week of their unplanned adventure, was a stack towering high enough to be a potential threat. Henry set to reviewing the files and signing off on death certificates for the myriad cases that had come through, until a knock interrupted him.

Jo smiled tentatively at him from his office door.

“Jo! Please, come in.”

She didn’t sit, despite his offered gesture, but hovered in the office by the guest chairs.

“I’m going to officially close the Glasser case today,” Jo said.

“Ah, yes. Here you go.”

Henry rooted through the stacks on his desk to produce the case file, now amended with Catherine Dunsmuir’s death certificate. Catherine’s husband had taken care of her transfer the day prior, and with Molina’s visit today, the OCME’s business was concluded as well. He stood and passed it off to her.

Jo took the file and tapped it against her hand.

“Weird that there’s so much to this case that no one’s ever going to know.”

“We know. That’s as much as anyone can ask—to have their true story remembered, even if only by a few.”

Jo took his meaning and nodded slowly. Her stance softened.

“How are you doing, Henry?” she asked.

“I’m well. Feeling back to my old self again.”

Jo allowed the bad joke with a chuckle—she was more comfortable now, growing ever more so in the few times he’d seen her since that night by the river—but her smile quickly faded when he said nothing more, replaced by a faint note of disappointment. She’d hoped for a better answer than a joke. He wet his lips, not sure how to fix his misstep. Habits of a lifetime were hard to break.

His door cracked open and Lucas stuck his head in. It was afternoon break time, according to his usual schedule, which Lucas had fallen back into with alacrity. He, like Henry, was a creature of habit.

“I’m going to grab a coffee while I’m on break. Bring you guys one?” he asked.

“No, I’m good,” Jo said. “Thanks, Lucas.”

The offer, while considerate, was unusual enough that Henry puzzled over it until he noted Lucas’ darting gaze between the two of them. Ah—Lucas was concerned that Henry was on poor footing with Jo, that there might be some smoothing over to be done. He was checking in to see if he could provide that service.

He wasn’t entirely wrong. Though meddling, the concern was appreciated.

“No, we’re fine,” Henry said. Lucas picked up on the subtle hint quicker than he would have previously, and he eased back as though to go. Henry raised a hand to stop him. “But, while I have you both here—Abe and I were thinking of hosting a dinner. We haven’t had proper Sunday dinner in ages, and we’d be honoured if you’d join us.”

It was a family tradition, something he and Abigail had fallen into that reminded them of their own childhoods. Henry’s childhood had been much longer ago than hers, but bless rigid British tradition, it bound them together across the gap of centuries, even if the details had changed.

Abe had jokingly suggested it the night before, given that there was the feel of family about their little motley crew, but then the topic of Lucas’ upcoming birthday had resurfaced and a small surprise party had been planned.

“Yeah, that sounds nice,” Jo said.

“Sure!” Lucas grinned, and flashed his phone at them. “I can fill you in on how my date goes.”

“Sabrina?” Henry asked.

“Yep. Finally getting that second date I already went on.”

“Are you going to tell her…”

“No.” Lucas wrinkled his nose. “No, think I’m going to try and forget that ever happened—no offence, Henry. Tell you what though, if thirty years from now she and I are like, vacationing in Hawaii and talking about what our grandkids might look like and she’d have to forgive me because our joint pensions are all that are going to give us a comfortable retirement—then yeah. And you can show up looking exactly the same to back me up so she doesn’t think I’m a total nutbar. Deal?”

“Deal,” Henry chuckled. “Enjoy yourself. I hope it goes well.”

Lucas strutted off, face buried in his phone and thumbs skipping over the screen, already exchanging another text message with Sabrina. Henry had a brief flutter of uncertainty as to whether or not he would be called on that promise, someday. A bridge to cross if and when the time came. In the meantime, he could admire Lucas and his willingness to stride into the unknown, the possibility of love another adventure to embrace and engage in, rather than passively skirt and admire from afar.

“Do I want to know?” Jo tucked her hands into her pockets and tilted her head to the side, her smile sardonic and dry.

Henry clasped his hands before him and hissed a breath between his teeth. He didn’t wish to dig into the trials of their masquerades quite yet.

“Let’s just say that Lucas’ dates are best left to him, and mine to me.”

“That sounds good to me,” she said with a lopsided smile.

Henry couldn’t tell if his own wishful thinking, or if there was an offer hidden in that teasing statement. He found himself very unexpectedly tongue-tied.

Jo was inspecting him quietly, and then she nodded slightly as she turned for the door.

“See you Sunday, Henry.”

Henry blew out a breath once she was gone. His pulse was racing.

 

***

 

Lucas put the last emoticon flourish on his text to Sabrina and pressed send. It swooshed off to her with the details of where and when they’d meet up tomorrow.

_It’s confirmed. I’m gonna see her._

The moment his body caught up with his mind, his palms started to sweat. Perversely, he’d missed that reaction.

Henry had finally relented and let Lucas grill him about the date with Sabrina—and been weirdly willing when Lucas jokingly suggested Henry give him a demonstration of how the kiss went. After a week spent up close and personal with Henry’s bits and bobs, it wouldn’t have been the strangest thing the two of them had done, but Lucas had declined and said he’d muddle his way through. From the elaborate shrug Henry gave him, Lucas suspected Henry was giving him a hard time—but he wasn’t positive.

Lucas’ phone buzzed in his hand, and he checked the alerts. An email from his mom. He instantly swiped away the alert without checking the email and dialled her number.

_“Hello?”_

“Hey, Ma,” Lucas said.

_“Lucas? It’s not Sunday. Is everything okay? Oh, Sugar, did something—“_

“No, Ma, just… called to say I love you. You know.” His mom’s sweeping silence made him laugh at himself. He leaned a shoulder against the wall and crossed his ankles. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Sorry I don’t call more.”

_“It’s okay, you made my day. Makes up for it.”_

“You know, I was thinking I might come home for the Fourth of July this year,” he said, impulsively.

He’d planned no such thing, but right now it seemed perfect: sitting under the umbrella on the patio, sweating his ass off in the sweltering Midwest heat, watching his dad and brother do stupid things with fireworks as Lucas listed off all the deaths he’d seen recently of people who’d blown off body parts, while his mom swatted the back of his head and told him she hadn’t raised a ghoul.

_“Oh, that’s great! Auntie Kitty is going to be here, and you can catch up with her! You haven’t seen her since you were fifteen. She’s going to bring your cousin Tanya with her, who’s got two little ones now—it’ll be a full house, but you can…”_

Lucas groaned quietly and instantly regretted his decision. The Extended Family Wahl was an endurance test of patience, one he usually failed in the first round. On the other hand, he was pretty damned grateful he could stand here thumping his own head on the wall being able to resent going home. This was his life, warts and all.

“Hey, Ma, I gotta go. But I’ll email you, we can sort out the details.”

_“Okay, Lu-lu. You take care, you hear?”_

Wow, he was _that_ desperately happy to be back in his own body that he didn’t even mind the stupid family nickname. Then again, even his driver’s license renewal notice arriving in the mail made him happy, because he could march down there with his own face and get his picture taken, and smile like a fool if he wanted. No booking and scheduling his body’s appearance with someone else. Last night was the first since they’d switched back that he hadn’t woken up in a cold sweat, thrashing his legs to get the covers off him so he could see his own body and know it was his.

 _Happy_ didn’t begin to describe it.

Lucas was done saying his goodbyes and was putting the phone in his pocket when the morgue double doors opened and Jo Martinez exited.

She was smiling to herself, which was at least better than the tense, grim expression she’d had going into Henry’s office, like she was prepping to face a six month job review committee. He flagged her down before she went by, straightening from his lean.

“Hey, Jo! You got a sec?”

He checked the hallway up and down, which was empty, and Jo quickly caught on that this was personal business to be kept out of the ears of those not in the know. She stepped close enough that he could talk quietly, her brows lowered in concern.

“What’s up, Lucas?”

“It’s nothing bad,” he said quickly. Man, he was giving off the alarm bells to everyone. When you went around getting touchy feely without warning, people either expected you were drunk or only had a year left to live. “I wanted to say thanks. For… you know. Being there. It helped.”

Jo Martinez was currently on his top ten list of saintly individuals, and he owed her way more than a thank you, but there wasn’t a greeting card for holding someone’s hand while they geared up to die with good graces.

“Oh, Lucas. Hey, no problem. I’m glad I could be there.” Jo’s eyes were all soft and empathetic.

“And the other thing.” He scratched at his neck. It kept bubbling up and wouldn’t leave him alone, so he had to face it. “I’m sorry for lying to you and making you think I was Henry. I thought it was going to be over soon, and Henry seemed really sure…” He winced—no, he wasn’t going to throw Henry under the bus. “I mean, I agreed with him, so it’s my fault too and all, but…uh… Sorry, Jo. I shouldn’t have lied to you, especially when it was personal like this.”

“Well,” she said slowly, folding her arms. “I’m not going to pretend I’m completely okay with it. But, on the other hand, these are some pretty extenuating circumstances. I really don’t know what I would have done in your place.”

“Yeah, a week of living Henry’s secret agent life was enough to destroy me. I can’t imagine how he’s done it all this time. I’d go nuts.”

Jo’s eyes lowered, and she nodded in agreement.

“Me too, I think.”

That troubled, grim look was back.

“He’s not a bad guy,” Lucas blurted.

Jo looked up in surprise.

“I don’t think he is, Lucas! I don’t.” She bit her lip, glancing back towards the morgue. “I just—I don’t know. There’s a lot I don’t know.”

“Aw, come on, it’s still Henry.” Lucas tapped her on the shoulder lightly with his fist and grinned. “Superman’s still Clark Kent underneath the suit, you know?”

“Henry is not Superman,” Jo said dryly.

“No, he’s not,” Lucas agreed. “He’s just a guy who’s put up with a lot of weird crap and got used to doing it on his own.” Jo didn’t say anything, so he shrugged. “It’s probably up to you and me to beat it into his skull that he’s got a team now. Which is, like—I mean, I’ll do my best and all, but I think you’ll actually get through.”

Jo frowned at him, suspicious.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, well. Y’know. You guys.” Her eyes narrowed, and Lucas bit his lip, glancing back towards the morgue. God, Henry would kill him. Hell, he might not have to because Jo would get there first, but… “Come on, Jo. I spent a week trying to breathe normally every time you walked in a room. As far as I can tell, you live somewhere around here,” he put his finger on his chest, next to his heart, “and I don’t think you’re going anywhere.” Jo shifted on her feet, her expression somewhere between confused and embarrassed, and Lucas quickly held up his hands to assure her he was done. “Anyway, whatever, not my business. But like—you guys would be for realsies _the_ best couple, and—“

“I got it, thanks very much,” Jo said, squinting as though in pain. “Yeah, stop. Now.”

Lucas mimed locking his lips with a key, but he couldn’t stop grinning. Jo hadn’t punched him, so she didn’t totally hate the idea.

If they hooked up, Lucas was taking all the credit.

“But thanks, Jo,” he said, as sincerely as he could manage. “For everything. I mean it.”

Jo shook her head with a little laugh, and she opened her arms and pulled him into a hug.

“You too, Lucas.”

As Lucas tucked his chin over her shoulder and squeezed her tight, the elevator doors at the end of the hall slid open. Detective Hanson stepped out, head buried in a file, and he looked up and locked eyes with Lucas. Lucas waved a greeting as he held Jo with his other arm.

“Hey, Detective Hanson! What’s shaking?”

Hanson stopped mid-step and gaped at him. Jo jerked around, and then shoved Lucas hard in the chest and took a step back quickly.

“No, it’s not—no!”

Hanson backed up again into the open elevator, mouth clamped closed, and Jo let out a little indignant cry.

“Mike!”

“None of my business, Jo!” Hanson called as he stabbed the elevator button rapidly, and the doors started sliding shut.

Jo put on a burst of speed and darted down the hall, slipping in through the closing doors before they shut. Lucas heard a “It’s not what it looks like—“ before the doors finished closing and cut off the scene.

That wasn’t gonna hurt his reputation none.

Lucas left the precinct with a bit more confidence, and an extra high-five for Sasha on the way out—the full on the side, up top, down low, too slow routine, because he was in _that_ good a mood.

 

***

 

Lucas tried pretending he wasn’t so nervous he might pee himself, but by the time he was standing at the subway station ready to meet Sabrina, he was sure he’d sweated through the stupid shirt he’d borrowed from Henry.

No, this was his shirt now, tailored to perfection. It was—okay, it was kind of nice. Maybe a little douchiness was a good thing now and again. He’d been meaning to sophisticate his style for a while, and Henry had a good eye. Besides, after all those tight pants of Henry’s, anything felt luxuriously comfortable.

And then, the wait was over—Sabrina skipped up the subway steps. Her dark tight curls bouncing as she moved, brushing the tops of her shoulders and the pink satin blouse she wore. Pink—more pink. She _did_ like pink, he _knew_ it.

She looked up and caught sight of him, and she grinned and waved. Oh man, she was so freaking _cute_.

He’d been looking at her Instagram feed all day, but she had a thing for the angles that made her face look all super high fashion, and cool filters that sharpened all her features, turning them into angular marble. There was none of her glow in those pictures, or the energy that came through in her text messages. They completely lost the happy curve of her lips—cherry red tonight, all fifties glam—and the impression that at any minute she was going to start squealing with glee. They were gorgeous, all of them, but they weren’t _her_.

He’d almost convinced himself she wasn’t real, couldn’t possibly be. Not being able to talk to or see her had made him want it so much that she’d become more than a person—she was on a pedestal already, having been untouchable for so long. He didn’t know if he’d fallen for the idea of Sabrina, or Sabrina herself.

Is this what happened to Henry? The whole world out of reach for long enough that he’d come to think of it as beyond him, unable to let himself treat people as friends, lovers, or family?

Lucas resolved he was never going to be like that, and the first step on that journey was this date. They were going to have the best time, no matter what happened afterwards. It wasn’t about the end result, it was about the here and now. Lucas was here, Sabrina was real, and this was gonna happen.

“Hey, you,” Lucas greeted her with a grin. “Good to finally see you.”

“Good to see you, too!” She had dimples when she smiled, cute little ones that appeared right in the centre of her cheeks. “Wasn’t sure if you ever stop working.”

“Oh.” He scratched at the back of his neck. “No, that wasn’t normal. That’s not going to happen again.”

She pursed her lips, swivelling her weight on one foot. She seemed to take that in a positive way, but she was still hesitant.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

“Um, are you sure you want to go see a movie? If you’re still tired out, or whatever, we don’t have to.” He puzzled over that, and then she rushed onward. “Just—last time, it seemed like you were uncomfortable in the theatre. Maybe you’re a watch on your own time kind of guy? Which is fine, I don’t mind.”

“No!” Oh man, what had Henry done? Probably rolled his eyes and sighed a lot, if he knew the guy at all. “No, look… I really wasn’t myself that night. Forget it happened. I mean—you’re great, Sabrina. I really really think you’re great. I haven’t had so much fun talking with someone in a long time, and I want to make it up to you. Properly, because you deserve it, because you’re, uh…”

Sabrina’s smile was radiant as he babbled on, and he ground to a halt, realizing he’d drifted into ‘standing outside her window holding a boombox’ territory.

“Because I’m great?” she finished, giggling through it.

“Yeah,” he agreed, sheepish. “You’re great.”

He’d completely lost his head. His heart was thumping away and his palms were sweaty and he was totally stuttering—and all of it was a perfectly normal. He laughed a little at himself. Some things he would never change about himself, and for once he didn’t care.

“You’re great too, Lucas.” Sabrina took his hand and smiled up at him.

It took him a good four seconds to catch on, with her blinking up at him wide-eyed, and then she slid a little closer and he figured it out. He ducked down and tentatively pressed a kiss to her lips, and—

Whoa, hot damn. She was _really_ good at that.

When Sabrina released him, her cheeks were warm and matched her lipstick, which was somehow not smeared. Man, girl makeup was magic. She patted him on the chest and bit her lip.

“Hey, what if we skip the movie anyway? Because I think I’m going to miss most of it thinking about making out with you.”

“Uh…” Lucas’ brain was going offline in spectacular fashion. _Oh man, oh man, oh man…_ “Yes?” No, that sounded like he wasn’t sure—he was way sure. He should have a little more conviction than that. “Yes,” he repeated, more definitively.

“Awesome.” Sabrina burrowed against his side under his arm. “I like you a lot, Lucas.” She looked up, dark eyes sweet and caring. “Especially when you’re yourself.”

His shoulders relaxed, and he squeezed her to his side, giddily happy.

“I’ve got that Evil Dead box set we could throw on and pay no attention to.”

“I’d like that.”

Lucas had never been so glad to be himself in all his life.


	25. Chapter 25

Sunday afternoon, Henry puttered around the kitchen, preparing a full roast dinner with potatoes, salads, pudding; all the comforts of home. An unusually heavy meal for the time of year, but it gave him pleasure to prepare dishes he’d been preparing since his childhood. He’d snuck into the kitchen to watch and help the servants when his mother and father’s attention was elsewhere, and in later years learned the dishes himself as times, traditions, and his own circumstances changed.

Henry worked, humming to himself, dusting flour off his hands and onto his apron as the ingredients for Lucas’ birthday cake came together. He was foolishly, childishly pleased with the physical work, happy to flex and stretch his body as he moved, everything properly responding to his whims. He promised himself he would never take it for granted again, no matter how many centuries he spent in his unchanging body.

“How’s it going in there, Betty Crocker?” Abe, reading in the living room, peered over the rim of his glasses at Henry. “We could have bought a cake, you know.”

“Sharing a table is a foundational part of any community, and the personal touch gives it further meaning. Besides, I daresay my baking skills have not faded over the years.”

That assertion turned out to be overly optimistic. Abe helped him fix up the resulting lopsided affair at the cost of some good-natured ribbing, and all mistakes were hidden by a heaping coat of icing.

Lucas arrived before Jo. He let himself into the shop with the key he’d not yet relinquished—which ultimately Abe and Henry agreed he should keep. Henry wasn’t such a fool as to ignore the fact that Lucas being in Henry’s confidence meant he was a person he could rely on. Abe had been his only backup for a long time, and it would be good to have another to call. Not that he anticipated death, but it had an unlucky way of finding him.

Lucas was swaggering when he came up the stairs; there was no other word for it. He clearly presented the suave Lothario in his mind. Henry raised an eyebrow.

“It went well with Sabrina, I take it?”

“Yep. Said she likes me better now,” he said with a grin and a waggle of his eyebrows. “Guess the old Wahl charm has its advantages.”

If not for Lucas’ unfeigned happiness beneath the blustering, crass pride, Henry would have chastised him for it. As it was, Henry patted him on the back, reminded of Abe’s teen years, and tried not to be too obvious in humouring Lucas.

“I’m very happy for you both.”

Henry beckoned Lucas into the apartment, and Lucas quickly settled in like he lived there, spread out on the couch and feet up on the living room table. It was unexpectedly pleasant that Lucas should treat this space as his own.

“So is Jo coming tonight?” Lucas asked.

“Yes, she is.”

“Great. That’s good.”

Lucas seemed very satisfied with himself on this point, and other than another smug smile, said nothing more. Henry sighed; Lucas had spent a week with Henry’s deeply unresolved feelings, and had made no secret of his desire to set the two of them off hand-in-hand into the sunset.

If only it were nearly that simple.

Jo arrived not too long later, gracefully allowing Henry to take her coat and accepting the glass of wine he offered.

“Smells good in here,” she said. “Can I help with anything?”

She scanned the apartment as she spoke, carefully marking everything she saw, with a sense of heightened observation, and it took a few seconds after her question before her gaze returned to him.

“Not for the moment,” he said. “Please, make yourself at home.”

She made her way into the living room and sat opposite Lucas. Henry kept half an eye on them as he finished preparing the dinner; Jo was not overtly upset with Henry, nor was she completely at ease. He was indeed still on parole, though he’d apparently been given a pass for his recent behaviour. He could accept that—if Jo was willing to weather both the unnatural realities of his existence, as well as his reflexive secrecy, then he’d count himself lucky.

“I watched _Freaky Friday_ again,” Lucas said to Jo in the living room, “and man, people have _no_ idea. So I figure for the Thanksgiving Weekend Horror Fest I’m going to do up a film about this. Better than therapy, right?”

Jo glanced up and caught Henry eavesdropping, and the look she gave him was sharp and teasing.

“How about it, Henry? Ever thought of writing your story down, giving it the fictional treatment?”

“No. That was best left to Doyle,” Henry said. “And now Lucas. In my hands, my mémoires would likely read like scientific texts.”

Lucas twisted on the couch towards Henry, his eyes wide.

“Doyle? _Conan_ Doyle?”

“Dinner’s ready!” Henry said as he clapped his hands with a broad smile. There’d be plenty of time for stories later, and he took mischievous enjoyment in the expressions on Jo and Lucas’ faces—ones that said they weren’t sure if he were telling the truth or pulling their legs. He always did like it better that way.

Over the course of dinner, Jo relaxed into the rhythm of conversation and camaraderie, and Henry found himself beaming and laughing more often than not. He caught Jo staring at him at one point and he winked at her, softened as he was by drink and the goodwill humming over the table, and she smiled and shook her head at his careless joy. They’d rarely done this—the few times he’d joined the police officers in off-duty socializing, he’d kept himself in check. Here, among people who knew all there was to tell, he forgot himself. He resumed his story to Lucas about the first time he went to the cinema in 1911. Shorter snippets of moving pictures had been featured at the World’s Fair and other events, a fascinating novelty more than anything else, but his first full movie had been a memorable experience.

“But we’re gathered here together for a reason,” Henry said as the dinner plates laid empty. He stood from his chair and headed into the kitchen. “A cause for celebration.”

He returned with the cake, clearly catching Lucas by surprise. Lucas had assumed, as Henry intended, that this was about Henry’s immortality and their new knowledge. But no, this was about the very mortal tradition of becoming another year older. As far as Henry was concerned, an important reason to celebrate.

“Happy birthday, Lucas,” he said as he laid the cake on the table. He grimaced at the less than perfect presentation—the top layer had slid to the side a little, and he gave it a nudge with the cake lifter. “You’ll have to pardon me, it’s been a while since I’ve baked a cake.”

“You…baked a cake?” Lucas stared at it.

“As you refused your mother’s kind offer to express post one, I thought we should provide an alternative. Granted, it’s not up to the standards of Mrs. Cheryl Wahl, but despite appearances it should taste fine.”

“Thanks, Henry,” Lucas said as he looked up with a wide, happy smile, a little misty. “I don’t know what to say.”

The genuine pleasure on Lucas’ face, unfeigned and unexaggerated, was more than thanks enough.

Abe took care of portioning out pieces. Jo made a pleased noise as she took a bite.

“You’re full of surprises, Henry,” she said.

“Some of them even good,” he joked.

Jo’s gaze flickered back to him, sharp and intense, and it hit him squarely in the stomach. His easy relaxation slipped, and he looked away from her with an embarrassed cough. He ignored Abe’s quiet amusement, and fortunately Lucas took no notice.

“So, happy birthday, Lucas. Thanks for giving us an excuse to have a party,” Abe said, saving Henry from his temporarily tongue-tied silence. “Here’s to new beginnings, and new understandings.” Abe picked up his wine glass and held it towards the middle of the table in a toast, and they all mimicked him. “In the words of one of the great modern philosophers of our time, Steve Martin: ‘Before you criticize a man, walk a mile in his shoes.’”

“Steve Martin?” Henry wrinkled his brow as he tried to place the name. “No, I believe that particular aphorism stems from a line in a poem by Mary T. Lathrap, published in 1895—”

Abe leaned forward and put his elbow on the table, hefted his glass towards Lucas with a grin, and continued, cutting Henry off.

“‘That way, when you do criticize him, you'll be a mile away and have his shoes.’”

Jo laughed, and Lucas clinked his glass to Abe’s with an “Amen, brother,” as Henry huffed at the abuse of the historical quote.

They retired to the living room, and towards the end when they were close to their goodbyes, Henry set to lighting the fire. He’d prepped the fireplace earlier in anticipation. Jo sat on the armchair next to him.

“Little late in the year for a fire, isn’t it?”

“We’ve one more thing to do.” The kindling caught and the wood took to flame, and he went to fetch the lock box he’d brought from downstairs. Lucas instinctively pulled back when Henry pulled out the evidence bag containing the wooden baton they’d recovered from Geri Glasser’s body. “As promised, we’ll make sure it cannot bring misfortune to anyone else.”

He looked to Lucas, who nodded jerkily.

Henry tossed the baton onto the fire, careful not to touch it with his bare hands, just in case. The flames licked at the polished wood, blackening and then charring it. As they watched in captivated silence, it smoked and properly caught fire.

“Good riddance,” Abe murmured. “Too many people hurt by that stupid thing.”

“Least there isn’t going to be any more,” Lucas said, suddenly somber—caught in memories of the last week, no doubt. His dark mood had lifted, but the event had marked him, just as it had Henry. “Thanks for saving my life, Henry.”

Henry tucked his hands in his pockets, not one for grand pronouncements. He’d done what he had to, and no more.

“Glad my immortality can be of use.”

Abe distracted Lucas with a question about what he planned to do with friends, which rolled out into a list of incomprehensible activities that Henry eventually boiled down to a dance event with costumes, and some types of community video games one could play with friends using headsets to communicate. Neither he, Jo, or Abe had much to contribute to the topics, but that didn’t deter Lucas, who filled the room with amiable chatter that they were all willing to entertain.

Eventually the night wound to a close, and Lucas was on his way with a warm goodbye to them all. Abe went to the kitchen to start tidying, and both Jo and Henry rose to help.

“Nah, you cooked. I’m gonna clean this stuff up. No rush to leave, Jo. Now, out; I don’t need an audience.”

Abe shooed them away in one of the most unsubtle ploys ever made. Henry gave Jo an apologetic grimace, but she didn’t seem offended by Abe’s antics. Henry grabbed the last of the bottle of wine and gestured towards the terrace.

“Shall we? It’s not too cold yet.”

She followed him, and they took a seat. The night was clear, and a few stars were visible despite the light pollution. Jo relaxed into her seat, and Henry sat next to her and refilled their glasses.

“Everything getting back to normal?” Jo asked.

“More or less.” He took a sip of his drink.

The silence between them lingered, and he twirled the stem of the wine glass in his fingers. He’d long trained himself to close down personal conversations, such that it was second-nature. Unless he made the effort, that would never change—and he wanted it to change.

“I’ve never imagined having a night such as tonight,” he continued quietly. “It was wonderful, thank you for being part of it.” She was watching him now, listening silently and attentively, but without indication of her thoughts. When she left the silence hanging, he prodded himself to continue. “I will have a great many things to tidy up in the coming months. I believe Lieutenant Reece will require some better behaviour from me in the future, or I may find myself looking for a new job. But… I think—I _hope_ —everything is finding its equilibrium.”

He didn’t know if he meant the unfortunate body exchange, his job, or him and Jo. All of the above, perhaps.

She smiled softly, apparently having heard the multiple meanings.

“These things take time.”

“That I’ve got,” he said lightly, and then sighed. “Though,” he added slowly, “I fear I’ve grown too used to squandering it. I’d like to fix that.”

Her dark eyes were nearly black in the low evening light as she stared into her wine glass, gathering her thoughts. He waited, giving her the time and space she needed, even as his chest tightened with anticipation and nerves. She held so many heartstrings, able to tug at them with something as simple as the blink of an eye.

“After seeing what I saw,” she said, then stopped. She swallowed heavily and restarted. “After seeing you die, I think it’s all sinking in. Still trying to wrap my head around the part about you being Abe’s dad, but I’m getting it. And I know I said wait a little bit, but…” She blew out her breath, and her eyes flickered towards him. “I’m ready to listen. Really listen, to all of it. I want to understand.”

He cocked his head, uncertain.

“Well,” he said slowly. “I don’t know how much I can tell you. I really don’t know why I’m the way I am. The mechanics of it are clear, but as for the reason—“

“That’s not what I meant.” Jo shifted in her seat towards him, and her knees bumped his. “Henry, you’ve been alive for a couple centuries. You’ve had a family, you’ve done—god, more stuff than I’ll ever do. I want to hear about what your life’s been like.” She pursed her lips, and then sighed, a sound of surrender, of confession. “And I want to know that you’re okay. What you found out about Abigail—I know what it feels like to have all those things dug up. You’ve got Abe, and Lucas, but…” She took his hand. “You’ve got me, too. I don’t need you to tell me things if you don’t want to, but I want you to know that you can.”

He was unable to speak. He laced his fingers between hers and held her hand tight as he gazed up into the sky, at the jasmine vines creeping over the trellis, leaves catching the orange glow of streetlights, hoping that gravity might hold back that which his self-control could not manage. The tactic failed, and he laughed weakly at his own excess of emotion.

Jo made a soft noise, and her knuckles brushed over his cheek, sweeping away the tears that escaped him. He closed his eyes and tilted his head towards the touch. Before she withdrew he caught her hand and pressed her fingers to his lips in thanks, then held both her hands like lifelines.

He ducked his head with a sheepish laugh as he tried to regain his control.

“Sure you’re not switched with someone who hasn’t every reason to be furious with me?” he asked.

She raised an eyebrow, unimpressed by his diversion.

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m still mad at you,” she said, lips quirked in a small, wry smile. “A little, anyway.”

“As you should be,” he said with a small laugh. “I’ve been told I have prodigious skill for infuriating even those with the mostly saintly patience.”

“They were right. But we’ll get through it.”

Jo tugged him up from his chair and drew him into a hug. He relaxed into the contact and buried his face in her hair when she leaned her head on his shoulder. He was sure he had not felt so present in a moment in such a long time.

“Will you tell me something?” she asked, her voice humming through his body and straight to his heart. “Anything. Doesn’t matter what. Just something about your life.”

He considered the question as he breathed in her warmth and vibrance.

“Would you like to know how I met Abe?” he asked. She made a small noise of agreement, and he placed a soft kiss on her hair.

“Wait, _met_ him?” Jo raised her head with a puzzled frown. “I thought he was your son?”

“He is. Adopted son.”

They sat on the table next to each other, their feet dangling off the edge like they were children sharing campfire stories.

“I served in the American military as a medic during the Second World War, and was deployed in Poland. We were liberating the concentration camps, and on a night when it was snowing and so damned cold I thought I’d never be warm again, I saw a nurse holding a baby—Abigail.”

He swallowed at the familiar roll of emotion that heaved up at her name. Jo shifted to put an arm around his back and rest her cheek against his shoulder. He smiled slightly, buoyed up by her support.

“I met them both that night, and they changed my life.”

He told the tale, one he’d held close to his heart and not shared with anyone who hadn’t been there to experience it themselves. Jo listened and absorbed it, becoming not just someone who knew his secret, but knew his story. With each word spoken he felt lighter; happy moments he’d nearly forgotten came back to warm him, and Jo smiled and laughed with him, hearing it all without doubt or hesitation, only acceptance.

Here was the lesson over again: he was better with people than he was alone. He was blessed to have someone who could persist beyond his own paranoia and stubborn fear to help him relearn that which Abigail had taught him: there were good people in this world who could be trusted. If he were brave enough to take her offered hand, he could be himself, his true self, with Jo.  And so, he talked into the night, and Jo listened.

He’d taken the first step—and she’d taken his hand to walk with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, this is literally all she wrote.
> 
> Again, thank you to the myriad people who've made this fic possible, through all kinds of support, and the mindblowing comments you folks have left me over the last month and a half that I've been posting. I've shed actual tears over this, and writing and sharing this fic has been probably the highlight of my fandom experience.
> 
> Thank you thank you thank you to all the Forever fans who continue to make this a wonderful place to be.
> 
> And LadySilver - I owe you a cake.


End file.
